THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 

of 

Prof.  Myron  Irving  Barken 


'9** 


SECOND  PLAYS 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

FIRST  PLAYS 

THE  DAY'S  PLAY 

THE  HOLIDAY  ROUND 

ONCE  A  WEEK 

ONCE  ON  A  TIME 

NOT  THAT  IT  MATTERS 

IF    I    MAY 

MR.    PIM 

THE   SUNNY  SIDE 


SECOND  PLAYS 

BY   A.    A.    MILNE 


NEW  YORK 
ALFRED    A.    KNOPF 

M  C  M  X  X  1 1 


Printed  in  Great  Britain  by 
R.  &  R.  CLARK,  LIMITED,  Edinburgh. 


College 
Library 


PR 


TO 

D.  M. 


SO   LITTLE   IN   RETURN  FOR   SO   MUCH 


Applications  regarding  Amateur  Per- 
formances of  the  Plays  in  this  Volume 
should  be  addressed  to  Samuel  French, 
Ltd.,  26  Southampton  Street,  Strand, 
London,  W.C.2. 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 

MAKE-BELIEVE  1 

MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  71 

THE  CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE  143 

THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  163 

THE  STEPMOTHER  249 


vii 


INTRODUCTION 

ENCOURAGED  by  the  reviewer  who  announced  that  the 
Introduction  to  my  previous  collection  of  plays  was  the 
best  part  of  the  book,  I  venture  to  introduce  this  collec- 
tion in  a  similar  manner.  But  I  shall  be  careful  not 
to  overdo  it  this  time,  in  the  hope  that  I  may  win  from 
my  critic  some  such  tribute  as,  "  Mr.  Milne  has  cer- 
tainly improved  as  a  dramatist,  in  that  his  plays  are 
now  slightly  better  than  his  Introduction." 

Since,  then,  I  am  trying  to  make  this  preface  as 
distasteful  as  possible,  in  order  that  the  plays  may 
shine  out  the  more  pleasantly,  I  shall  begin  (how 
better  ?)  with  an  attack  on  the  dramatic  critics.  I 
will  relate  a  little  conversation  which  took  place,  shortly 
after  the  publication  of  "  First  Plays,"  between  myself 
and  a  very  much  more  eminent  dramatist. 

EMINENT  DRAMATIST  (kindly)  Your  book  seems  to  have 
been  well  reviewed. 

MYSELF  (ungratefully}.  Not  bad — by  those  who  re- 
viewed it.  But  I  doubt  if  it  was  noticed  by  more  than 
three  regular  dramatic  critics.  And  considering  that 
two  of  the  plays  in  it  had  never  been  produced — 

EMINENT  DRAMATIST  (amused  by  my  innocence).  My  dear 
fellow,  you  needn't  complain.  I  published  an  unpro- 


x  INTRODUCTION 

duced  play  a  little  while  ago,  and  it  didn't  get  a  single 
notice  from  anybody. 

Now  I  hope  that,  however  slightly  the  conversations 
in  the  plays  which  follow  may  move  the  dramatic  critic, 
he  will  at  least  be  disturbed  by  this  little  dialogue. 
All  of  us  who  are  interested  in  the  theatre  are  accus- 
tomed to  read,  and  sometimes  to  make,  ridiculous 
accusations  against  the  Theatrical  Manager.  We  con- 
demn the  mercenary  fellow  because  he  will  not  risk  a 
loss  of  two  or  three  thousand  pounds  on  the  intellectual 
masterpiece  of  a  promising  young  dramatist,  preferring 
to  put  on  some  contemptible  but  popular  rubbish  which 
is  certain  to  fill  his  theatre.  But  now  we  see  that  the 
dramatic  critic,  that  stern  upholder  of  the  best  interests 
of  the  British  Drama,  will  not  himself  risk  six  shillings 
(and  perhaps  two  or  three  hours  of  his  time)  in  order 
to  read  the  intellectual  masterpiece  of  the  promising 
young  dramatist,  and  so  to  be  able  to  tell  us  with 
authority  whether  the  Manager  really  is  refusing  master- 
pieces or  no.  He  will  not  risk  six  shillings  in  order  to 
encourage  that  promising  young  dramatist — discouraged 
enough  already,  poor  devil,  in  his  hopes  of  fame  and 
fortune — by  telling  him  that  he  is  right,  and  that  his 
plays  are  worth  something,  or  (alternatively)  to  prevent 
him  from  wasting  any  more  of  his  youth  upon  an  art-form 
to  which  he  is  not  suited.  No,  he  will  not  risk  his 
shillings  ;  but  he  will  write  an  important  (and,  let  us 
hope,  well -re  warded)  article,  informing  us  that  the 
British  Drama  is  going  to  the  dogs,  and  that  no  pro- 
mising young  dramatist  is  ever  given  a  fair  chance. 

Absurd,  isn't  it  ? 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

Let  us  consider  this  young  dramatist  for  a  moment, 
and  ask  ourselves  why  he  goes  on  writing  his  master- 
pieces. I  give  three  reasons  —  in  their  order  of  im- 
portance. 

(1)  The  pleasure  of  writing  ;  or,  more  accurately,  the 
hell  of  not  writing.     He  gets  this  anyhow. 

(2)  The  appreciation  of  his  peers  ;    his  hope  of  im- 
mortality ;  the  criticism  of  the  experts  ;  fame,  publicity, 
notoriety,  swank,  reclame — call  it  what  you  will.    But 
it  is  obvious  that  he  cannot  have  it  unless  the  master- 
piece is  given  to   the   world,   either  by  manager  or 
publisher. 

(3)  Money.     If  the  masterpiece  is  published  only, 
very  little  ;  if  produced,  possibly  a  great  deal. 

As  I  say,  he  gets  his  first  reward  anyhow.  But  let 
us  be  honest  with  ourselves.  How  many  of  us  would 
write  our  masterpieces  on  a  desert  island,  with  no 
possibility  of  being  rescued  ?  Well,  perhaps  all  of  us  ; 
for  we  should  feel  that,  even  if  not  rescued  ourselves, 
our  manuscripts — written  on  bark  with  a  burnt  stick — 
clutched  in  a  skeleton  hand — might  be  recovered  later 
by  some  literary  sea-captain.  (As  it  might  be,  Conrad.) 
But  how  many  of  us  would  write  masterpieces  if  we  had 
to  burn  them  immediately  afterwards,  or  if  we  were 
alone  upon  the  world,  the  last  survivors  of  a  new  flood  ? 
Could  we  bear  to  write  ?  Could  we  bear  not  to  write  ? 
It  is  not  fair  to  ask  us.  But  we  can  admit  this  much 
without  reserve  ;  it  is  the  second  reward  which  tears 
at  us,  and,  lacking  it,  we  should  lose  courage. 

So  when  the  promising  young  dramatist  has  his  play 
refused  by  the  Managers — after  what  weeks,  months, 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

years  of  hope  and  fear,  uncertainty  and  bitter  disappoint- 
ment— he  has  this  great  consolation  :  "  Anyway,  I  can 
always  publish  it."  Perhaps,  after  a  dozen  refusals,  a 
Manager  offers  to  put  on  his  play,  on  condition  that  he 
alters  the  obviously  right  (and  unhappy)  ending  into  the 
obviously  foolish,  but  happy,  ending  which  will  charm 
the  public.  Does  he,  the  artist,  succumb  ?  How  easy 
to  tell  himself  that  he  must  get  his  play  before  the 
public  somehow,  and  that,  even  if  it  is  not  his  play  now, 
yet  the  first  two  acts  are  as  he  wrote  them,  and  that, 
if  only  to  feel  the  thrill  of  the  audience  at  that  great 
scene  between  the  Burglar  and  the  Bishop  (his  crea- 
tions !)  he  must  deaden  his  conscience  to  the  absurdity 
of  a  happy  ending.  But  does  he  succumb  ?  No. 
Heroically  he  tells  himself :  "  Anyway,  I  can  publish 
it ;  and  I'm  certain  that  the  critics  will  agree  with  me 
that —  '  But  the  critics  are  too  busy  to  bother  about 
him.  They  are  busy  informing  the  world  that  the 
British  Drama  is  going  to  the  dogs,  and  that  no  promising 
young  dramatist  ever  gets  a  fair  chance. 

Let  me  say  here  that  I  am  airing  no  personal 
grievance.  I  doubt  if  any  dramatist  has  less  right  to 
feel  aggrieved  against  the  critics,  the  managers,  the 
public,  the  world,  than  I  ;  and  whatever  right  I  have  I 
renounce,  in  return  for  the  good  things  which  I  have 
received  from  them.  But  I  do  not  renounce  the 
grievance  of  our  craft.  I  say  that,  in  the  case  of  all 
dramatists,  it  is  the  business  of  the  dramatic  critics 
to  review  their  unacted  plays  when  published.  Some 
of  them  do  ;  most  of  them  do  not.  It  is  ridiculous  for 
those  who  do  not  to  pretend  that  they  take  any  real 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

interest  in  the  British  Drama.  But  I  say  "  review," 
not  "  praise."  Let  them  damn,  by  all  means,  if  the 
plays  are  unworthy ;  and,  by  damning,  do  so  much  of 
justice  to  the  Managers  who  refused  them. 

We  can  now  pass  on  safely  to  the  plays  in  this 
volume. 

We  begin  with  a  children's  play.  The  difficulty  in 
the  way  of  writing  a  children's  play  is  that  Barrie  was 
born  too  soon.  Many  people  must  have  felt  the  same 
about  Shakespeare.  We  who  came  later  have  no 
chance.  What  fun  to  have  been  Adam,  and  to  have 
had  the  whole  world  of  plots  and  jokes  and  stories  at 
one's  disposal.  Possibly,  however,  one  would  never 
have  thought  of  the  things.  Of  course,  there  are  still 
others  to  come  after  us,  but  our  works  are  not  immortal, 
and  they  will  plagiarise  us  without  protest.  Yet  I  have 
hopes  of  Make-Believe,  for  it  had  the  honour  of  in- 
augurating Mr.  Nigel  Playfair's  management  at  the 
Lyric,  Hammersmith.  It  is  possible  that  the  historians 
will  remember  this,  long  after  they  have  forgotten  my 
plays  ;  more  likely  (alas  !)  that  their  history  will  be 
dated  A.D.  (After  Drinkwater)  and  that  the  honour  \\ill 
be  given  to  "  Abraham  Lincoln."  I  like  to  think  that 
in  this  event  my  ghost  will  haunt  them.  Make-Believe 
appeared  with  a  Prologue  by  the  Manager,  lyrics  by 
C.  E.  Burton,  and  music  by  Georges  Dorlay.  As  the 
title-page  states  that  this  book  is,  in  the  language  of 
children's  competitions,  "  my  own  unaided  work,"  I 
print  the  play  with  a  new  Prologue,  and  without  the 
charming  lyrics.  But  the  reader  is  told  when  he  may 
burst  into  an  improvisation  of  his  own,  though  I  warn 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

him  that  he  will  not  make  such  a  good  show  of  it  as  did 
my  collaborators. 

Mr.  Pirn  Passes  By  appeared  at  several  theatres.  Let 
us  admit  cheerfully  that  it  was  a  success — in  spite  of 
the  warning  of  an  important  gentleman  in  the  theatrical 
world,  who  told  me,  while  I  was  writing  it,  that  the 
public  wouldn't  stand  any  talk  of  bigamy,  and  suggested 
that  George  and  Olivia  should  be  engaged  only,  not 
married.  (Hence  the  line,  "  Bigamy  !  .  .  .  It  wan  ugly 
word,"  in  the  Second  Act.)  But,  of  course,  nobody 
sees  more  clearly  than  I  how  largely  its  success  was  due 
to  Mr.  Dion  Boucicault  and  Miss  Irene  Vanbrugh. 

The  Romantic  Age  appeared  first  at  the  Comedy,  and 
(like  Mr.  Pirn)  found,  in  its  need,  a  home  at  The  Play- 
house. Miss  Gladys  Cooper  has  a  charming  way  of 
withdrawing  into  a  nursing  home  whenever  I  want  a 
theatre,  but  I  beg  her  not  to  make  a  habit  of  it.  My 
plays  can  be  spared  so  much  more  easily  than  she. 
By  the  way,  a  word  about  Melisande.  Many  of  the 
critics  said  that  nobody  behaved  like  that  nowadays. 
I  am  terrified  at  the  thought  of  arguing  with  them, 
for  they  can  always  reduce  me  to  blushes  with  a  scornful, 
"  My  dear  man,  you  can't  do  that  in  a  play  !  "  And 
when  they  tell  me  to  remember  what  Strindberg  said 
in  '93  (if  he  were  alive  then  ;  I  really  don't  know)  or 
what  Aristotle  wrote  in — no,  I  shan't  even  guess  at 
Aristotle,  well,  then,  I  want  to  burst  into  tears,  my 
ignorance  is  so  profound.  So,  very  humbly,  I  just  say 
now  that,  when  Melisande  talks  and  behaves  in  a 
certain  way,  I  do  not  mean  that  a  particular  girl  exists 
(Miss  Jones,  of  999  Bedford  Park)  who  talks  and  behaves 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

like  this,  but  I  do  mean  that  there  is  a  type  of  girl  who, 
in  her  heart,  secretly,  thinks  like  this.  If,  from  your 
great  knowledge  of  the  most  secret  places  of  a  young 
girl's  heart,  you  tell  me  that  there  is  no  such  type, 
then  I  shall  only  smile.  But  if  you  inform  me  sternly 
that  a  dramatist  has  no  business  to  express  an  attitude 
in  terms  of  an  actress,  then  you  reduce  me  to  blushes 
again.  For  I  really  know  nothing  about  play-writing, 
and  I  am  only  sustained  by  two  beliefs.  The  first  is 
that  rules  are  always  made  for  the  other  people  ;  the 
second  is  that,  if  a  play  by  me  is  not  obviously  by  me, 
and  as  obviously  not  by  anybody  else,  then  (obviously) 
I  had  no  business  to  write  it. 

Of  the  one-act  plays,  The  Camberley  Triangle  and 
The  Stepmother,  nothing  much  need  be  said.  The  former 
was  played  at  the  Coliseum  ;  the  latter,  written  for 
Miss  Winifred  Emery,  was  deemed  by  the  management 
too  serious  for  that  place  of  amusement.  This,  however, 
was  to  the  great  advantage  of  the  play,  for  now  it  has 
appeared  only  at  Charity  matinees  with  an  "  all-star  " 
cast. 

As  before,  the  plays  are  printed  in  the  order  in  which 
they  were  written  ;  in  this  case  between  October  1918 
and  June  1920.  May  the  reader  get  as  much  enjoyment 
from  them  as  I  had  in  their  writing.  But  no  ;  that  is 

plainly  impossible. 

A.  A.  MILNE. 


MAKE-BELIEVE 

A   CHILDREN'S   PLAY   IN  A   PROLOGUE 
AND  THREE  ACTS 


Make-Believe  was  first  produced  at  the  Lyric  Theatre, 
Hammersmith,  on  December  24,  1918.  The  chief  parts 
were  played  by  Marjory  Holman,  Jean  Cadell,  Rosa 
Lynd,  Betty  Chester,  Roy  Lennol,  John  Barclay,  Kinsey 
Peile,  Stanley  Drewitt,  Ivan  Berlyn,  and  Herbert 
Marshall — several  parts  each. 


MAKE-BELIEVE 

PROLOGUE 

The  playroom  of  ike  HUBBARD  FAMILY — nine  of  them. 
Counting  MR.  and  MRS.  HUBBARD,  we  realize  that  there 
are  eleven  HUBBARDS  in  all,  and  you  would  think  that 
one  at  least  of  the  two  people  we  see  in  the  room  would 
be  a  HUBBARD  of  sorts.  But  no.  The  tall  manly 

figure  is  JAMES,  the  HUBBARDS'  butler,  for  the  HUB- 
BARDS  are  able  to  afford  a  butler  now.  How  different 

from  the  time  when  Old  Mother  Hubbard — called  "  old  " 
because  she  was  at  least  twenty -two,  and  "  mother  " 
because  she  had  a  passion  for  children — could  not 
even  find  a  bone  for  her  faithful  terrier  ;  but,  of  course, 
that  was  before  HENRY  went  into  work.  Well,  the  tall 

figure  is  JAMES,  the  butler,  and  the  little  one  is  ROSE- 
MARY, a  friend  of  the  HUBBARD  FAMILY.  ROSEMARY 
is  going  in  for  literature  this  afternoon,  as  it's  raining, 
and  JAMES  is  making  her  quite  comfortable  first  with 
pens  and  ink  and  blotting-paper — always  so  important 
when  one  wants  to  write.  He  has  even  thought  of  a 
stick  of  violet  sealing-wax  ;  after  that  there  can  be 
no  excuse. 

ROSEMARY.  Thank  you,  James.     (She  sits  down.}     If 
any  one  calls  I  am  not  at  home. 
JAMES.  Yes,  Miss. 

3 


4  MAKE-BELIEVE 

ROSEMARY.  You  may  add  that  I  am  engaged  in  writing 
my  auto — autobiography. 

JAMES    Yes,  Miss. 

ROSEMARY.  It's  what  every  one  writes,  isn't  it,  James  ? 

JAMES.  I  believe  so,  Miss. 

ROSEMARY.  Thank  you.  (He  goes  to  the  door.}  Oh, 
James  ? 

JAMES.  Yes,  Miss  ? 

ROSEMARY.  What  is  an  autobiography  ? 

JAMES.  Well,  I  couldn't  rightly  say,  Miss — not  to 
explain  it  properly. 

ROSEMARY  (dismayed).  Oh,  James  !  .  .  .  I  thought  you 
knew  everything. 

JAMES.  In  the  ordinary  way,  yes,  Miss,  but  every  now 
and  then 

ROSEMARY.  It's  very  upsetting. 

JAMES.  Yes,  Miss.  .  .  .  How  would  it  be  to  write  a 
play  instead  ?  Very  easy  work,  they  tell  me. 

ROSEMARY  (nodding).  Yes,  that's  much  better.  I'll 
write  a  play.  Thank  you,  James. 

JAMES.  Not  at  all,  Miss.  [He  goes  out. 

(ROSEMARY  bites  her  pen,  and  thinks  deeply.  At  last 
the  inspiration  comes.) 

ROSEMARY  (as  she  writes).  Make-Believe.  M-a-k-e 

hyphen  B-e-1 (she  stops  and  frowns)  Now  which  way 

is  it  ?  (She  tries  it  on  the  blotting-paper)  That  looks 
wrong.  (She  tries  it  again)  So  does  that.  Oh,  dear  ! 
(She  rings  the  bell  .  .  .  JAMES  returns.) 

JAMES.  Yes,  Miss  ? 

ROSEMARY.  James,  I  have  decided  to  call  my  play 
Make-Believe. 

JAMES.  Yes,  Miss. 

ROSEMARY  (carelessly).  When  you  spell  "  believe,"  it 
is  "  i-e,"  isn't  it  ? 

JAMES.  Yes,  Miss. 


MAKE-BELIEVE  5 

ROSEMARY.  I  thought  at  first  it  was  "  e-i." 

JAMES.  Now  you  mention  it,  I  think  it  is,  Miss. 

ROSEMARY  (reproachfully).  Oh,  James  !  Aren't  you 
certain  ? 

JAMES.  M-a-k-e,  make,  B-e-1 (lie  stops  and 

scratches  his  whiskers?) 

ROSEMARY.  Yes.     /  got  as  far  as  that. 

JAMES.  B-e-1 

ROSEMARY.  You  see,  James,  it  spoils  the  play  if  you 
have  an  accident  to  the  very  first  word  of  it. 

JAMES.  Yes,  Miss.  B-e-1 —  I've  noticed  some- 
times that  if  one  writes  a  word  careless-like  on  the 
blotting-paper,  and  then  looks -at  it  with  the  head  on 
one  side,  there's  a  sort  of  instinct  comes  over  one,  as 
makes  one  say  (with  a  shake  of  the  head)  "  Rotten." 
One  can  then  write  it  the  other  way  more  hopeful. 

ROSEMARY.  I've  tried  that. 

JAMES.  Then  might  I  suggest,  Miss,  that  you  give 
it  another  name  altogether  ?  As  it  might  be,  "  Susan's 
Saturday  Night,"  all  easy  words  to  spell,  or  "  Red 
Revenge,"  or 

ROSEMARY.  I  must  call  it  Make-Believe,  because  it's 
all  of  the  play  I've  thought  of  so  far. 

JAMES.  Quite  so,  Miss.  Then  how  would  it  be  to 
spell  it  wrong  on  purpose  ?  It  comes  funnier  that  way 
sometimes. 

ROSEMARY.    Does  it  ? 

JAMES.  Yes,  Miss.     Makes  'em  laugh. 

ROSEMARY.  Oh  !  .  .  .  Well,  which  is  the  wrong  way  ? 

JAMES.  Ah,  there  you've  got  me  again,  Miss. 

ROSEMARY  (inspired).  I  know  what  I'll  do.  I'll  spell 
it  "  i-e  "  ;  and  if  it's  right,  then  I'm  right,  and  if  it's 
wrong,  then  I'm  funny. 

JAMES.  Yes,  Miss.     That's  the  safest. 

ROSEMARY.  Thank  you,  James. 


6  MAKE-BELIEVE 

JAMES.  Not  at  all,  Miss.  [He  goes  out. 

ROSEMARY  (writing).  Makc-Bclicve.  A  Christmas 

Entertainment (She  stops  and  thinks,  and  then  shakes 

her  head.)  No,  play — a  Christmas  Play  in  three  acts. 
Er (She  is  stuck) 

Enter  JAMES. 

JAMES.  Beg  pardon,  Miss,  but  the  Misses  and  Masters 
Hubbard  are  without,  and  crave  admittance. 

ROSEMARY.  All  nine  of  them  ? 

JAMES.  Without  having  counted  them,  Miss,  I  should 
say  that  the  majority  of  them  were  present. 

ROSEMARY.  Did  you  say  that  I  was  not  at  home  ? 

JAMES.  Yes,  Miss.  They  said  that,  this  being  their 
house,  and  you  being  a  visitor,  if  you  had  been  at  home, 
then  you  wouldn't  have  been  here.  Yumour  on  the 
part  of  Master  Bertram,  Miss. 

ROSEMARY.  It's  very  upsetting  when  you're  writing 
a  play. 

JAMES.  Yes,  Miss.  Perhaps  they  could  help  you  with 
it.  The  more  the  merrier,  as  you  might  say. 

ROSEMARY.  What  a  good  idea,  James.     Admit  them. 

JAMES.  Yes,  Miss.  (He  opens  the  door  and  says  very 
rapidly}  The  Misses  Ada,  Caroline,  Elsie,  Gwendoline, 
and  Isabel  Hubbard,  The  Masters  Bertram,  Dennis, 
Frank,  and  Harold  Hubbard.  (They  come  in) 

ROSEMARY.  How  do  you  do  ? 

ADA.  Rosemary,  darling,  what  are  you  doing  ? 

BERTRAM.  It's  like  your  cheek,  bagging  our  room. 

CAROLINE  (primly).  Hush,  Bertram.  We  ought  always 
to  be  polite  to  our  visitors  when  they  stay  with  us.  I 
am  sure,  if  Rosemary  wants  our  room 

DENNIS.  Oh,  chuck  it  ! 

ADA  (at  ROSEMARY'S  shoulder).  Oh,  I  say,  she's  writing 
a  play  ! 


MAKE-BELIEVE  7 

(Uproar  and  turmoil,  as  they  all  rush  at  ROSEMARY.) 
THE  BOYS.  Coo  !     I  say,  shove  me  into  it.     What's 
it  about  ?     Bet  it's  awful  rot. 

THE  GIRLS.  Oh,  Rosemary  !     Am  /in  it  ?     Do  tell  us 
.about  it.     Is  it  for  Christmas  ? 

ROSEMARY  (in  alarm).  James,  could  you ? 

JAMES  (firmly).  Quiet,  there,  quiet !  Down,  Master 
Dennis,  down !  Miss  Gwendoline,  if  you  wouldn't 

mind (He  picks  her  up  and  places  her  on  the  floor.) 

Thank  you.     (Order  is  restored.) 

ROSEMARY.  Thank  you,  James.  .  .  .  Yes,  it's  a  play 
for  Christmas,  and  it  is  called  "  Make-Believe,"  and 
that's  all  I'm  certain  about  yet,  except  that  we're  all 
going  to  be  in  it. 

BERTRAM.  Then  I  vote  we  have  a  desert  island 

DENNIS.  And  pirates 

FRANK.  And  cannibals 

HAROLD  (gloatingly).  Cannibals  eating  people — Oo  ! 

CAROLINE  (shocked).  Harold  !  How  would  you  like  to 
be  eaten  by  a  cannibal  ? 

DENNIS.  Oh,  chuck  it !  How  would  you  like  to  be  a 
cannibal  and  have  nobody  to  eat  ?  (CAROLINE  is  silent, 
never  having  thought  of  this  before.) 

ADA.  Let  it  be  a  fairy-story,  Rosemary,  darling.  It's 
so  much  prettier. 

ELSIE.  With  a  lovely  princess 

GWENDOLINE.  And  a  humble  woodcutter  who  marries 
her 

ISABEL  (her  only  contribution).  P'itty  P'incess. 

BERTRAM.  Princesses  are  rot. 

ELSIE  (with  spirit).  So  are  pirates  !     (Deadlock.) 

CAROLINE.  /  should  like  something  about  Father 
Christmas,  and  snow,  and  waits,  and  a  lovely  ball,  and 
everybody  getting  nice  presents  and  things. 

DENNIS  (selfishly,  I'm  afraid).  Bags  I  all  the  presents. 


8  MAKE-BELIEVE 

(Of  course,  the  others  aren't  going  to  have  that.  They 
all  say  so  together?) 

ROSEMARY  (above  the  turmoil).  James,  I  must  have 
silence. 

JAMES.  Silence,  all ! 

ROSEMARY.  Thank  you.  .  .  .  You  will  be  interested 
to  hear  that  I  have  decided  to  have  a  Fairy  Story  and 
a  Desert  Island  and  a  Father  Christmas. 

ALL.  Good  !     (Or  rvords  to  that  effect?) 

ROSEMARY  (biting  her  pen).  I  shall  begin  with  the 
Fairy  Story.  (There  is  an  anxious  silence.  None  of  them 
has  ever  seen  anybody  writing  a  play  before.  How  does 
one  do  it?  Alas,  ROSEMARY  herself  doesn't  know.  She 
appeals  to  JAMES.)  James,  how  do  you  begin  a  play  ?  I 
mean  when  you've  got  the  title. 

JAMES  (a  man  of  genius).  Well,  Miss  Rosemary,  seeing 
that  it's  to  be  called  "  Make-Believe,"  why  not  make- 
believe  as  it's  written  already  ? 

ROSEMARY.  What  a  good  idea,  James  ! 

JAMES.  All  that  is  necessary  is  for  the  company  to 
think  very  hard  of  what  they  want,  and — there  we  are  ! 
Saves  all  the  bother  of  writing  and  spelling  and  what  not. 

ROSEMARY  (admiringly).  James,  how  clever  you  are  ! 

JAMES.  So-so,  Miss  Rosemary. 

ROSEMARY.  Now  then,  let's  all  think  together.  Are 
you  all  ready  ? 

ALL.  Yes  !     (They  clench  their  hands?) 

ROSEMARY.  Then  one,  two,  three — Go  ! 

(They  think.  .  .  .  The  truth  is  that  JAMES,  who 
wasn't  really  meant  to  be  in  it,  thinks  too.  If 
there  is  anything  in  the  play  which  you  don't 
like,  it  is  JAMES  thinking?) 


ACT   I. — THE    PRINCESS   AND   THE   WOODCUTTER 

The  WOODCUTTER  is  discovered  singing  at  his  work,  in  a 
glade  of  the  forest  outside  his  hut.  lie  is  tall  and 
strong,  and  brave  and  handsome  ;  all  that  a  wood- 
cutter ought  to  be.  Now  it  happened  that  the  PRINCESS 
was  passing,  and  as  soon  as  his  song  is  finished,  sure 
enough,  on  she  comes.) 

PRINCESS.  Good  morning,  Woodcutter. 

WOODCUTTER.  Good  morning.  (But  he  goes  on  with 
his  work.} 

PRINCESS  (after  a  pause).  Good  morning.  Woodcutter. 

WOODCUTTER.  Good  morning. 

PRINCESS.  Don't  you  ever  say  anything  except  good 
morning  ? 

WOODCUTTER.  Sometimes  I  say  good-bye. 

PRINCESS.  You  are  a  cross  woodcutter  to-day. 

WOODCUTTER.  I  have  work  to  do. 

PRINCESS.  You  are  still  cutting  wood  ?  Don't  you 
ever  do  anything  else  ? 

WOODCUTTER.  Well,  you  are  still  a  Princess  ;  don't 
you  ever  do  anything  else  ? 

PRINCESS  (reproachfully).  Now,  that's  not  fair,  Wood- 
cutter. You  can't  say  I  was  a  Princess  yesterday,  when 
I  came  and  helped  you  stack  your  wood.  Or  the  day 
before,  when  I  tied  up  your  hand  where  you  had  cut  it. 
Or  the  day  before  that,  when  we  had  our  meal  together 
on  the  grass.  Was  I  a  Princess  then  ? 

9 


10  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  i 

WOODCUTTER.  Somehow  I  think  you  were.  Some- 
how I  think  you  were  saying  to  yourself,  "  Isn't  it  sweet 
of  a  Princess  to  treat  a  mere  woodcutter  like  this  ?  " 

PRINCESS.  I  think  you're  perfectly  horrid.  I've  a 
good  mind  never  to  speak  to  you  again.  And — and  I 
would,  if  only  I  could  be  sure  that  you  would  notice 
I  wasn't  speaking  to  you. 

WOODCUTTER.  After  all,  I'm  just  as  bad  as  you.  Only 
yesterday  I  was  thinking  to  myself  how  unselfish  I 
was  to  interrupt  my  work  in  order  to  talk  to  a  mere 
Princess. 

PRINCESS.  Yes,  but  the  trouble  is  that  you  don't  inter- 
rupt your  work. 

WOODCUTTER  (interrupting  it  and  going  up  to  her  with 
a  smile).  Madam,  I  am  at  your  service. 

PRINCESS.  I  wish  I  thought  you  were. 

WOODCUTTER.  Surely  you  have  enough  people  at  your 
service  already.  Princes  and  Chancellors  and  Cham- 
berlains and  Waiting  Maids. 

PRINCESS.  Yes,  that's  just  it.  That's  why  I  want 
your  help.  Particularly  in  the  matter  of  the  Princes. 

WOODCUTTER.  Why,  has  a  suitor  come  for  the  hand 
of  her  Royal  Highness  ? 

PRINCESS.  Three  suitors.     And  I  hate  them  all. 

WOODCUTTER.  And  which  are  you  going  to  marry  ? 

PRINCESS.  I  don't  know.  Father  hasn't  made  up  his 
mind  yet. 

WOODCUTTER.  And  this  is  a  matter  which  father — 
which  His  Majesty  decides  for  himself? 

PRINCESS.  Why,  of  course  !  You  should  read  the 
History  Books,  Woodcutter.  The  suitors  to  the  hand 
of  a  Princess  are  always  set  some  trial  of  strength  or 
test  of  quality  by  the  King,  and  the  winner  marries  his 
daughter. 

WOODCUTTER.  Well,  I  don't  live  in  a  Palace,  and  I 


ACT  i]  MAKE-BELIEVE  11 

think  my  own  thoughts  about  these  things.  I'd  better 
get  back  to  my  work.  (He  goes  on  with  his  chopping?) 

PRINCESS  (gently,  after  a  pause).  Woodcutter  ! 

WOODCUTTER  (looking  up).  Oh,  are  you  there  ?  I 
thought  you  were  married  by  this  time. 

PRINCESS  (meekly).  I  don't  want  to  be  married. 
(Hastily)  I  mean,  not  to  any  of  those  three. 

WOODCUTTER.  You  can't  help  yourself. 

PRINCESS.  I  know.  That's  why  I  wanted  you  to  help 
me. 

WOODCUTTER  (going  up  to  her).  Can  a  simple  woodcutter 
help  a  Princess  ? 

PRINCESS.  Well,  perhaps  a  simple  one  couldn't,  but 
a  clever  one  might. 

WOODCUTTER.  What  would  his  reward  be  ? 

PRINCESS.  His  reward  would  be  that  the  Princess, 
not  being  married  to  any  of  her  three  suitors,  would 
still  be  able  to  help  him  chop  his  wood  in  the  mornings. 
...  I  am  helping  you,  aren't  I  ? 

WOODCUTTER  (smiling).  Oh,  decidedly. 

PRINCESS  (nodding).  I  thought  I  was. 

WOODCUTTER.  It  is  kind  of  a  great  lady  like  yourself 
to  help  so  humble  a  fellow  as  I. 

PRINCESS  (meekly).  I'm  not  very  great.  (And  she  isn't. 
She  is  the  smallest,  daintiest  little  Princess  that  ever  you  saw.) 

WOODCUTTER.  There's  enough  of  you  to  make  a 
hundred  men  unhappy. 

PRINCESS.  And  one  man  happy  ? 

WOODCUTTER.  And  one  man  very,  very  happy. 

PRINCESS  (innocently).  I  wonder  who  he'll  be.  .  .  . 
Woodcutter,  if  you  were  a  Prince,  would  you  be  my 
suitor  ? 

WOODCUTTER  (scornfulhf) .  One  of  three  ? 

PRINCESS  (excitedly).  Oo,  would  you  kill  the  others  ? 
With  that  axe  ? 


12  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  i 

WOODCUTTER.  I  would  not  kill  them,  in  order  to  help 
His  Majesty  make  up  his  mind  about  his  son-in-law. 
But  if  the  Princess  had  made  up  her  mind — and  wanted 
me 

PRINCESS.  Yes  ? 

WOODCUTTER.  Then  I  would  marry  her,  however  many 
suitors  she  had. 

PRINCESS.  Well,  she's  only  got  three  at  present. 

WOODCUTTER.  What  is  that  to  me  ? 

PRINCESS.  Oh,  I  just  thought  you  might  want  to  be 
doing  something  to  your  axe. 

WOODCUTTER.  My  axe  ? 

PRINCESS.  Yes.  You  see,  she  has  made  up  her 
mind. 

WOODCUTTER  (amazed^.  You  mean But— but   I'm 

only  a  woodcutter. 

PRINCESS.  That's  where  you'll  have  the  advantage  of 
them,  when  it  comes  to  axes. 

WOODCUTTER.  Princess  !  (lie  takes  her  in  his  arms) 
My  Princess  ! 

PRINCESS.  Woodcutter  !  My  woodcutter  !  My,  oh 
so  very  slow  and  uncomprehending,  but  entirely  adorable 
woodcutter  ! 

(They   sing    together.     They  just    happen   to  feel 
like  that.) 

WOODCUTTER  (the  song  finished).  But  what  will  His 
Majesty  say  ? 

PRINCESS.  All  sorts  of  things.  .  .  .  Do  you  really 
love  me,  woodcutter,  or  have  I  proposed  to  you  under 
a  misapprehension  ? 

WOODCUTTER.  I  adore  you  ! 

PRINCESS  (nodding).  I  thought  you  did.  But  I 
wanted  to  hear  you  say  it.  If  I  had  been  a  simple 
peasant,  I  suppose  you  would  have  said  it  a  long  time 
aso  ? 


ACT  i]  MAKE-BELIEVE  13 

WOODCUTTER.    I  expect  SO. 

PRINCESS  (nodding).  Yes.  .  .  .  Well,  now  we  must 
think  of  a  plan  for  making  Mother  like  you. 

WOODCUTTER.  Might  I  just  kiss  you  again  before  we 
begin  ? 

PRINCESS.  Well,  I  don't  quite  see  how  I  am  to  stop 
you. 

(The  WOODCUTTER  picks  her  up  in  his  arms  and 
kisses  her.) 

WOODCUTTER.  There  ! 

PRINCESS  (in  his  arms').  Oh,  woodcutter,  woodcutter, 
why  didn't  you  do  that  the  first  day  I  saw  you  ?  Then 
I  needn't  have  had  the  bother  of  proposing  to  you. 
(He  puts  her  down  suddenly)  What  is  it  ? 

WOODCUTTER  (listening).  Somebody  coming.  (lie peers 
through  the  trees  and  then  says  in  surprise)  The  King  ! 

PRINCESS.  Oh  !   I  must  fly  ! 

WOODCUTTER.  But  you'll  come  back  ? 

PRINCESS.  Perhaps. 

[She  disappears  quickly  through  the  trees. 
(The  WOODCUTTER  goes  on  with  his  rvork  and  is 
discovered  at  it  a  minute  later  by  the  KING  and 
QUEEN.) 

KING  (puffing).  Ah  !  and  a  seat  all  ready  for  us.  How 
satisfying.  (They  sit  down,  a  distinguished  couple — readino 
from  left  to  right,  "  KING,  QUEEN  "- — on  a  bench  outside  the 
WOODCUTTER'S  hut.) 

QUEEN  (crossly — she  was  like  that).  I  don't  know  why 
you  dragged  me  here. 

KING.  As  I  told  you,  my  love,  to  be  alone. 

QUEEN.  Well,    you    aren't    alone.     (She   indicates   the 

WOODCUTTER.) 

KING.  Pooh,  he  doesn't  matter.  .  .  .  Well  now,  about 
these  three  Princes.  They  are  getting  on  my  mind 
rather.  It  is  time  we  decided  which  one  of  them  is  to 


14  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  i 

marry  our  beloved  child.  The  trouble  is  to  choose 
between  them. 

QUEEN.  As  regards  appetite,  there  is  nothing  to  choose 
between  them.  They  are  three  of  the  heartiest  eaters 
I  have  met  for  some  time. 

KINO.  You  are  right.  The  sooner  we  choose  one  of 
them,  and  send  the  other  two  about  their  business,  the 
better.  (Reflectively)  There  were  six  peaches  on  the 
breakfast-table  this  morning.  Did  I  get  one  ?  No. 

QUEEN.  Did  /  get  one  ?     No. 

KING.  Did  our  darling  child  get  one — not  that  it 
matters  ?  No. 

QUEEN.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  seven-headed  bull  died 
last  year. 

KING.  Yes,  he  had  a  way  of  sorting  out  competitors 
for  the  hand  of  our  beloved  one  that  was  beyond  all 
praise.  One  could  have  felt  quite  sure  that,  had  the 
three  competitors  been  introduced  to  him,  only  one  of 
them  would  have  taken  any  further  interest  in  the 
matter. 

QUEEN  (always  the  housekeeper).  And  even  he  mightn't 
have  taken  any  interest  in  his  meals. 

KING  (with  a  sigh).  However,  those  days  are  over.  We 
must  think  of  a  new  test.  Somehow  I  think  that,  in  a 
son-in-law,  moral  worth  is  even  more  to  be  desired  than 
mere  brute  strength.  Now  my  suggestion  is  this  :  that 
you  should  disguise  yourself  as  a  beggar  woman  and 
approach  each  of  the  three  princes  in  turn,  supplicating 
their  charity.  In  this  way  we  shall  discover  which  of 
the  three  has  the  kindest  heart.  What  do  you  say, 
my  dear  ? 

QUEEN.  An  excellent  plan.  If  you  remember,  I 
suggested  it  myself  yesterday. 

KING  (annoyed).  Well,  of  course,  it  had  been  in  my 
mind  for  some  time.  I  don't  claim  that  the  idea  is 


ACT  i]  MAKE-BELIEVE  15 

original ;  it  has  often  been  done  in  our  family.  (Get- 
ting up)  Well  then,  if  you  will  get  ready,  my  dear,  I 
will  go  and  find  our  three  friends  and  see  that  they 
come  this  way.  [They  go  out  together. 

(As  soon  as  they  are  out  of  sight  the  PRINCESS 
comes  back.) 

PRINCESS.  Well,  Woodcutter,  what  did  I  tell  you  ? 

WOODCUTTER.  What  did  you  tell  me  ? 

PRINCESS.  Didn't  you  listen  to  what  they  said  ? 

WOODCUTTER.  I  didn't  listen,  but  I  couldn't  help 
hearing. 

PRINCESS.  Well,  /  couldn't  help  listening.  And 
unless  you  stop  it  somehow,  I  shall  be  married  to  one  of 
them  to-night. 

WOODCUTTER.  Which  one  ? 

PRINCESS.  The  one  with  the  kindest  heart — whichever 
that  is. 

WOODCUTTER.  Supposing  they  all  three  have  kind 
hearts  ? 

PRINCESS  (confidently').  They  won't.  They  never  have. 
In  our  circles  when  three  Princes  come  together,  one 
of  them  has  a  kind  heart  and  the  other  two  haven't. 
(Surprised)  Haven't  you  read  any  History  at  all  ? 

WOODCUTTER.  I  have  no  time  for  reading.  But  I 
think  it's  time  History  was  altered  a  little.  We'll 
alter  it  this  afternoon. 

PRINCESS.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

WOODCUTTER.  Leave  this  to  me.     I've  got  an  idea. 

PRINCESS  (clapping  her  hands).  Oh,  how  clever  of  you  ! 
But  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  ? 

WOODCUTTER  (pointing).  You  know  the  glade  over 
there  where  the  brook  runs  through  it  ?  Wait  for  me 
there. 

PRINCESS.  I  obey  my  lord's  commands. 

[She  blows  him  a  kiss  and  runs  off 


16  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  i 

(The  WOODCUTTER  resumes  his  work.  By  and  by 
the  RED  PRINCE  comes  along.  He  is  a — well, 
you  mill  see  for  yourself  what  he  is  like.) 

RED  PRINCE.  Ah,  fellow.  .  .  Fellow  !  .  .  .  I  said 
fellow  !  (Yes,  that  sort  of  man.') 

WOODCUTTER  (looking  up).  Were  you  speaking  to  me, 
my  lord  ? 

RED  PRINCE.  There  is  no  other  fellow  here  that  I 
can  see. 

(The  WOODCUTTER  looks  round  to  make  sure,  peers 
behind  a  tree  or  two,  and  comes  back  to  the 
PRINCE.) 

WOODCUTTER.  Yes,  you  must  have  meant  me. 

RED  PRINCE.  Yes,  of  course  I  meant  you,  fellow.  Have 
you  seen  the  Princess  come  past  this  way  ?  I  was  told 
she  was  waiting  for  me  here. 

WOODCUTTER.  She  is  not  here,  my  lord.  (Looking 
round  to  see  that  they  are  alone)  My  lord,  are  you  one 
of  the  Princes  who  is  seeking  the  hand  of  the  Princess. 

RED  PRINCE  (complacently).  I  am,  fellow. 

WOODCUTTER.  His  Majesty  the  King  was  here  a  while 
ago.  He  is  to  make  his  decision  between  you  this 
afternoon.  (Meaningly]  I  think  I  can  help  you  to  be 
the  lucky  one,  my  lord. 

RED  PRINCE.  You  suggest  that  I  take  an  unfair  advan- 
tage over  my  fellow-competitors  ? 

WOODCUTTER.  I  suggest  nothing,  my  lord.  I  only  say 
that  I  can  help  you. 

RED  PRINCE  (magnanimously).  Well,  I  will  allow  you 
to  help  me. 

WOODCUTTER.  Thank  you.  Then  I  will  give  you  this 
advice.  If  a  beggar  woman  asks  you  for  a  crust  of 
bread  this  afternoon,  remember — it  is  the  test  ! 

RED  PRINCE  (staggered).  The  test  !  But  I  haven't  got 
a  crust  of  bread  ! 


ACT  i]  MAKE-BELIEVE  17 

WOODCUTTER.  Wait  here  and  I  will  get  you  one. 

(He  goes  into  the  hut.) 

RED  PRINCE  (speaking  after  him  as  he  goes).  My  good 
fellow,  I  am  extremely  obliged  to  you,  and  if  ever  I 
can  do  anything  for  you,  such  as  returning  a  crust  to 
you  of  similar  size,  or  even  lending  you  another  slightly 

smaller  one,  or (The  WOODCUTTER  comes  back  with  the 

crust.")     Ah,  thank  you,  my  man,  thank  you. 

WOODCUTTER.  I  would  suggest,  my  lord,  that  you 
should  take  a  short  walk  in  this  direction  (pointing  to 
the  opposite  direction  to  that  which  the  PRINCESS  has  taken), 
and  stroll  back  casually  in  a  few  minutes'  time  when 
the  Queen  is  here. 

RED  PRINCE.  Thank  you,  my  man,  thank  you. 

(He  puts  the  crtist  in  his  pocket  and  goes  off.) 
(The  WOODCUTTER  goes  on  with  his  work.     The 
BLUE  PRINCE  comes  in  and  stands  watching  him 
in  silence  for  some  moments?) 
WOODCUTTER  (looking  up).  Hullo  ! 

BLUE  PRINCE.    Hullo  ! 

WOODCUTTER.  What  do  you  want  ? 
BLUE  PRINCE.  The  Princess. 
WOODCUTTER.  She's  not  here. 

BLUE  PRINCE.    Oh  ! 

(The  WOODCUTTER  goes  on  with  his  work  and  the 

PRINCE  goes  on  looking  at  him.) 

WOODCUTTER  (struck  with  an  idea).  Are  you  one  of  the 
Princes  who  is  wooing  the  Princess  ? 

BLUE  PRINCE.    Yes. 

WOODCUTTER  (coming  towards  him).  I  believe  I  could 
help  your  Royal  Highness. 

BLUE  PRINCE.    Do. 

WOODCUTTER   (doubtfully).  It   would   perhaps   be   not 
quite  fair  to  the  others. 
BLUE  PRINCE.  Don't  mind. 

C 


18  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  i 

WOODCUTTER.  Well  then,  listen.  (He  pauses  a  moment 
and  looks  round  to  see  that  they  are  alone.') 

BLUE  PRINCE.  I'm  listening. 

WOODCUTTER.  If  you  come  back  in  five  minutes,  you 
will  see  a  beggar  woman  sitting  here.  She  will  ask 
you  for  a  crust  of  bread.  You  must  give  it  to  her,  for 
it  is  the  way  His  Majesty  has  chosen  of  testing  your 
kindness  of  heart. 

BLUE  PRINCE  (feeling  in  his  pockets).  No  bread. 

WOODCUTTER.  I  will  give  you  some. 

BLUE  PRINCE.    Do. 

WOODCUTTER  (taking  a  piece  from  his  pocket).  Here 
you  are. 

BLUE  PRINCE.  Thanks. 

WOODCUTTER.  Not  at  all,  I'm  very  glad  to  have  been 
able  to  help  you. 

(He  goes   on   with  his  rvork.      The   BLUE  PRINCE 
remains  looking  at  him.") 

BLUE  PRINCE  (with  a  great  effort).  Thanks. 

(He  goes  slowly  away.    A  moment  later  the  YELLOW 
PRINCE  makes  a  graceful  and  languid  entry.") 

YELLOW  PRINCE.  Ah,  come  hither,  my  man,  come 
hither. 

WOODCUTTER  (stopping  his  work  and  looking  up).  You 
want  me,  sir  ? 

YELLOW  PRINCE.  Come  hither,  my  man.  Tell  me, 
has  her  Royal  Highness  the  Princess  passed  this  way 
lately  ? 

WOODCUTTER.  The  Princess  ? 

YELLOW  PRINCE.  Yes,  the  Princess,  my  bumpkin. 
But  perhaps  you  have  been  too  much  concerned  in 
your  own  earthy  affairs  to  have  noticed  her.  You — ah 
— cut  wood,  I  see. 

WOODCUTTER.  Yes,  sir,  I  am  a  woodcutter. 

YELLOW  PRINCE.  A  most  absorbing  life.     Some  day 


ACT  i]  MAKE-BELIEVE  19 

we  must  have  a  long  talk  about  it.  But  just  now  I 
have  other  business  waiting  for  me.  With  your  per- 
mission, good  friend,  I  will  leave  you  to  your  faggots. 
(He  starts  to  go.*) 

WOODCUTTER.  Beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  are  you  one 
of  those  Princes  that  want  to  marry  our  Princess  ? 

YELLOW  PRINCE.  I  had  hoped,  good  friend,  to  obtain 
your  permission  to  do  so.  I  beg  you  not  to  refuse  it. 

WOODCUTTER.  You  are  making  fun  of  me,  sir. 

YELLOW  PRINCE.  Discerning  creature. 

WOODCUTTER.  All  the  same,  I  can  help  you. 

YELLOW  PRINCE.  Then  pray  do  so,  log-chopper,  and 
earn  my  everlasting  gratitude. 

WOODCUTTER.  The  King  has  decided  that  whichever 
of  you  three  Princes  has  the  kindest  heart  shall  marry 
his  daughter. 

YELLOW  PRINCE.  Then  you  will  be  able  to  bear  witness 
to  him  that  I  have  already  wasted  several  minutes  of 
my  valuable  time  in  condescending  to  a  mere  faggot- 
splitter.  Tell  him  this  and  the  prize  is  mine.  (Kissing 
the  tips  of  his  fingers)  Princess,  I  embrace  you. 

WOODCUTTER.  The  King  will  not  listen  to  me.  But  if 
you  return  here  in  five  minutes,  you  will  find  an  old 
woman  begging  for  bread.  It  is  the  test  which  their 
Majesties  have  arranged  for  you.  If  you  share  your 
last  crust  with  her — 

YELLOW  PRINCE.  Yes,  but  do  I  look  as  if  I  carried  a 
last  crust  about  with  me  ? 

WOODCUTTER.  But  see,  I  will  give  you  one. 

YELLOW  PRINCE  (taking  it  between  the  tips  of  his  fingers). 
Yes,  but— 

WOODCUTTER.  Put  it  in  your  pocket,  and  when 

YELLOW  PRINCE.  But,  my  dear  bark-scraper,  have  you 
no  feeling  for  clothes  at  all  ?  How  can  I  put  a  thing  like 
this  in  my  pocket  ?  (Handing  it  back  to  hiiti)  I  beg  you 


20  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  i 

to  wrap  it  up.  Here  take  this.  (Gives  him  a  scarf) 
Neatly,  I  pray  you.  (Taking  an  orange  ribbon  out  of  his 
pocket)  Perhaps  a  little  of  this  round  it  would  make  it 
more  tolerable.  You  think  so  ?  I  leave  it  to  you.  I 
trust  your  taste  entirely.  .  .  .  Leaving  a  loop  for  the 
little  finger,  I  entreat  you  .  .  .so.  (He  hangs  it  on  his 
little  finger)  In  about  five  minutes,  you  said  ?  We  will 
be  there.  (With  a  bom')  We  thank  you. 

(He  departs  delicately.  The  WOODCUTTER  smiles  to 
himself,  puts  down  his  axe  and  goes  off"  to  the 
PRINCESS.  And  just  in  time.  For  behold  !  the 
KING  and  QUEEN  return.  At  least  we  think  it 
is  the  QUEEN,  but  she  is  so  heavily  disguised  by 
a  cloak  which  she  wears  over  her  court  dress, 
that  for  a  moment  rve  are  not  quite  sure.) 

KING.  Now  then,  my  love,  if  you  will  sit  down  on  that 
log  there — (placing  her) — excellent — I  think  perhaps 
you  should  remove  the  crown.  (Removes  if)  There  ! 
Now  the  disguise  is  perfect. 

QUEEN.  You're  sure  they  are  coming  ?  It's  a  very 
uncomfortable  seat. 

KING.  I  told  them  that  the  Princess  was  waiting  for 
them  here.  Their  natural  disappointment  at  finding 
I  was  mistaken  will  make  the  test  of  their  good  nature 
an  even  more  exacting  one.  My  own  impression  is  that 
the  Yellow  Prince  will  be  the  victor. 

QUEEN.  Oh,  I  hate  that  man. 

KING  (soothingly).  Well,  well,  perhaps  it  will  be  the 
Blue  one. 

QUEEN.  If  anything,  I  dislike  him  more  intensely. 

KING.  Or  even  the  Red. 

QUEEN.  Ugh  !     I  can't  bear  him. 

KING.  Fortunately,  dear,  you  are  not  called  upon 
to  marry  any  of  them.  It  is  for  our  darling  that  we 
are  making  the  great  decision.  Listen  !  I  hear  one 


ACT  i]  MAKE-BELIEVE  21 

coming.     I  will  hide  in  the  cottage  and  take  note  of 
what  happens. 

(He  disappears  into  ike  cottage  as  the  BLUE  PRINCE 
comes  in.) 

QUEEN.  Oh,  sir,  can  you  kindly  spare  a  crust  of 
bread  for  a  poor  old  woman  !  Please,  pretty  gentle- 
man ! 

BLUE  PRINCE  (standing  stolidly  in  front  of  her  and  feel- 
ing in  his  pocket).  Bread  .  .  .  Bread  .  .  .  Ah !  Bread ! 
(He  offers  it.) 

QUEEN.  Oh,  thank  you,  sir.  May  you  be  rewarded 
for  your  gentle  heart. 

BLUE  PRINCE.  Thank  you. 

(He  stands  gazing  at  her.     There  is  an  awkward 
pause.) 

QUEEN.  A  blessing  on  you,  sir. 

BLUE  PRINCE.  Thank  you.  (He  indicates  the  crust) 
Bread. 

QUEEN.  Ah,  you  have  saved  the  life  of  a  poor  old 
woman 

BLUE  PRINCE.    Eat  it. 

QUEEN  (embarrassed).  I — er — you — er (She  takes 

a  bite  and  mumbles  something?) 

BLUE  PRINCE.    What  ? 

QUEEN  (swallowing  with  great  difficulty).  I'm  almost 
too  happy  to  eat,  sir.  Leave  a  poor  old  woman  alone 
with  her  happiness,  and 

BLUE  PRINCE.  Not  too  happy.  Too  weak.  Help  you 
eat.  (He  breaks  off  a  piece  and  holds  it  to  her  mouth. 
With  a  great  effort  the  QUEEN  disposes  of  it.)  Good  !  .  .  . 
Again  !  (She  does  it  again.)  Now  !  (She  swallows 
another  piece.)  Last  piece  !  (She  takes  it  in.  He  pats  her 
kindly  on  the  back,  and  she  nearly  chokes?)  Good.  .  .  . 
Better  now  ? 

QUEEN  (weakly).  Much. 


22  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  i 

BLUE  PRINCE.  Good  day. 

QUEEN  (with  an  effort).  Good  day,  kind  gentleman. 

[He  goes  out. 

(The  KING  is  just  coming  from  the  cottage,  when 
he  returns  suddenly.  The  KING  slips  back 
again.) 

BLUE  PRINCE.  Small  piece  left  over.  (He  gives  it  to 
her.  She  looks  hopelessly  at  him.)  Good-bye. 

[He  goes. 

QUEEN  (throwing  the  piece  down  violently).  Ugh ! 
What  a  man  ! 

KING  (coming  out).  Well,  well,  my  dear,  we  have 
discovered  the  winner. 

QUEEN  (from  the  heart).  Detestable  person  ! 

KING.  The  rest  of  the  competition  is  of  course  more 

in  the  nature  of  a  formality 

QUEEN.  Thank  goodness. 

KING.  However,  I  think  that  it  will  prevent  un- 
necessary discussion  afterwards  if  we Take  care, 

here  is  another  one.     (Pie  hurries  back.) 

Enter  the  RED  PRINCE. 

QUEEN  (with  not  nearly  so  much  conviction).  Could  you 
spare  a  crust  of  bread,  sir,  for  a  poor  hungry  old 
woman  ? 

RED  PRINCE.  A  crust  of  bread,  madam  ?  Certainly. 
As  luck  will  have  it,  I  have  a  crust  on  me.  My  last  one, 
but — your  need  is  greater  than  mine.  Eat,  I  pray. 

QUEEN.  Th-thank  you,  sir. 

RED  PRINCE.  Not  at  all.  Come,  eat.  Let  me  have 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  eating. 

QUEEN.  M-might  I  take  it  home  with  me,  pretty 
gentleman  ? 

RED  PRINCE  (firmly).  No,  no.  I  must  see  you  eating. 
Come  !  I  will  take  no  denial. 


ACT  i]  MAKE-BELIEVE  23 

QUEEN.  Th-thank  you,  sir.  (Hopefully)  Won't  you 
share  it  with  me  ? 

RED  PRINCE.  No,  I  insist  on  your  having  it  all.  I  am 
in  the  mood  to  be  generous.  Oblige  me  by  eating  it 
now  for  I  am  in  a  hurry  ;  yet  I  will  not  go  until  you 
have  eaten.  (She  does  her  best.)  You  eat  but  slowly. 
(Sternly)  Did  you  deceive  me  when  you  said  you  were 
hungry  ? 

QUEEN.  N-no.     I'm  very  hungry.     (She  eats) 

RED  PRINCE.  That's  better.  Now  understand — how- 
ever poor  I  am,  I  can  always  find  a  crust  of  bread 
for  an  old  woman.  Always  !  Remember  this  when 
next  you  are  hungry.  .  .  .  You  spoke  ?  (She  shakes 
her  head  and  goes  on  eating.)  Finished  ? 

QUEEN  (with  great  difficulty).  Yes,  thank  you,  pretty 
gentleman. 

RED  PRINCE.  There's  a  piece  on  the  ground  there 
that  you  dropped.  (She  eats  it  in  dumb  agony.) 
Finished  ? 

QUEEN  (huskily).  Yes,  thank  you,  pretty  gentleman. 

RED  PRINCE.  Then  I  will  leave  you,  madam.     Good 

morning.  [He  goes  out. 

(The  QUEEN  rises  in  fury.     The  KING  is  about  to 

come  out  of  the  cottage,  when  the  YELLOW  PRINCE 

enters.       The    QUEEN    sits    down    again    and 

mumbles    something.      It    is    certainly    not    an 

appeal  for  bread,  but  the  YELLOW  PRINCE  is  not 

to  be  denied.) 

YELLOW  PRINCE  (gallantly).  My  poor  woman,  you  are 
in  distress.  It  pains  me  to  see  it,  madam,  it  pains  me 
terribly.  Can  it  be  that  you  are  hungry  ?  I  thought 
so,  I  thought  so.  Give  me  the  great  pleasure,  madam, 
of  relieving  your  hunger.  See  (holding  up  his  Jinger), 
my  own  poor  meal.  Take  it  !  It  is  yours. 

QUEEN  (with  difficulty).  I  am  not  hungry. 


24  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  i 

YELLOW  PRINCE.  Ah,  madam,  I  see  what  it  is.  You 
do  not  wish  to  deprive  me.  You  tell  yourself,  perchance, 
that  it  is  not  fitting  that  one  in  your  station  of  life 
should  partake  of  the  meals  of  the  highly  born.  You 
are  not  used,  you  say,  to  the  food  of  Princes.  Your 
rougher  palate 

QUEEN  (hopefully).  Did  you  say  food  of  princes  ? 

YELLOW  PRINCE.  Where  was  I,  madam  ?  You  inter- 
rupted me.  No  matter — eat.  (She  takes  the  scarf  and 
unties  the  ribbon?)  Ah,  now  I  remember.  I  was  saying 
that  your  rougher  palate 

QUEEN  (discovering  the  tvorsf).  No !  No !  Not 
bread  ! 

YELLOW  PRINCE.  Bread,  madam,  the  staff  of  life. 
Come,  madam,  will  you  not  eat  ?  (She  tries  desperately.) 
What  can  be  more  delightful  than  a  crust  of  bread  by 
the  wayside  ? 

(The  QUEEN  shrieks  and  Jails  back  in  a  srvoon. 
The  KING  rushes  out  to  her.") 

KING  (to  YELLOW  PRINCE).  Quick,  quick,  find  the 
Princess. 

YELLOW  PRINCE.  The  Princess — find  the  Princess  ! 
(He  goes  vaguely  off  and  we  shall  not  see  him  again. 
But  the  WOODCUTTER  and  the  PRINCESS  do  not 
need  to  be  found.     They  are  here?) 

WOODCUTTER  (to  PRINCESS).  Go  to  her,  but  don't  show 
that  you  know  me. 

(lie  goes  into  the  cottage,  and  the  PRINCESS  hastens 
to  her  father.) 

PRINCESS.  Father  ! 

KING.  Ah,  my  dear,  you're  just  in  time.  Your 
mother 

PRINCESS.  My  mother  ? 

KING.  Yes,  yes.  A  little  plan  of  mine — of  hers — your 
poor  mother.  Dear,  dear  1 


ACT  i]  MAKE-BELIEVE  25 

PRINCESS.  But  what's  the  matter  ? 

KINO.  She  is  suffering  from  a  surfeit  of  bread,  and 

(The  WOODCUTTER  comes  up  with  a  flagon  of  wine.} 

WOODCUTTER.  Poor  old  woman  !  She  has  fainted  from 
exhaustion.  Let  me  give  her  some 

QUEEN  (shrieking).  No,  no,  not  bread  !  I  will  not  have 
any  more  bread. 

WOODCUTTER.  Drink  this,  my  poor  woman. 

QUEEN  (opening  her  eyes).  Did  you  say  drink  ?  (She 
seises  the  flagon  and  drinks.} 

PRINCESS.  Oh,  sir,  you  have  saved  my  mother's  life  ! 

WOODCUTTER.  Not  at  all. 

KINO.  I  thank  you,  my  man,  I  thank  you. 

QUEEN.  My  deliverer  !     Tell  me  who  you  are  ! 

PRINCESS.  It  is  my  mother,  the  Queen,  who  asks 
you. 

WOODCUTTER  (amazed,  as  well  he  may  be~).  The  Queen  ! 

KINO.  Yes,  yes.     Certainly,  the  Queen. 

WOODCUTTER  (taking  off  his  haf).  Pardon,  your  Majesty. 
I  am  a  woodcutter,  who  lives  alone  here,  far  away  from 
courts. 

QUEEN.  Well,  you've  got  more  sense  in  your  head 
than  any  of  the  Princes  that  I've  seen  lately.  You'd 
better  come  to  court. 

PRINCESS  (shyly).  You  will  be  very  welcome,  sir. 

QUEEN.  And  you'd  better  marry  the  Princess. 

KINO.  Isn't  that  perhaps  going  a  little  too  far,  dear  ? 

QUEEN.  Well,  you  wanted  kindness  of  heart  in  your 
son-in-law,  and  you've  got  it.  And  he's  got  common 
sense  too.  (To  WOODCUTTER)  Tell  me,  what  do  you  think 
of  bread  as — as  a  form  of  nourishment  ? 

WOODCUTTER  (cautiously).  One  can  have  too  much 
of  it. 

QUEEN.  Exactly  my  view.  (To  KING)  There  you  are, 
you  see. 


26  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  i 

KINO.  Well,  if  you  insist.  The  great  thing,  of  course, 
is  that  our  darling  child  should  be  happy. 

PRINCESS.  I  will  do  my  best,  father.  (She  takes  the 
WOODCUTTER'S  hand.) 

KING.  Then  the  marriage  will  take  place  this  evening. 
(With  a  wave  of  his  rvand)  Let  the  revels  begin. 

(They  begin.) 


ACT  II. — OLIVER'S  ISLAND 

SCENE  I. — The  Schoolroom  (Ugh  f) 

OLIVER  is  discovered  lying  flat  on  his well,  lying  flat  on 

the  floor,  deep  in  a  book.     The  CURATE  puts  his  head 
in  at  the  door. 

CURATE.  Ah,  our  young  friend,  Oliver  !  And  how 
are  we  this  morning,  dear  lad  ? 

OLIVER  (mumbling).  All  right,  thanks. 

CURATE.  That's  well,  that's  well.  Deep  in  our  studies, 
I  see,  deep  in  our  studies.  And  what  branch  of  Know- 
ledge are  we  pursuing  this  morning  ? 

OLIVER  (without  looking  up).  "  Marooned  in  the  Pacific," 
or  "  The  Pirate's  Bride." 

CURATE.  Dear,  dear,  what  will  Miss  Pinniger  say  to 
this  interruption  of  our  studies  ? 

OLIVER.  Silly  old  beast. 

CURATE.  Tut-tut,  dear  lad,  that  is  not  the  way  to 
speak  of  our  mentors  and  preceptors.  So  refined  and 
intelligent  a  lady  as  Miss  Pinniger.  Indeed  I  came 
here  to  see  her  this  morning  on  a  little  matter  of  em- 
broidered vestments.  Where  is  she,  dear  lad  ? 

OLIVER.  It  isn't  nine  yet. 

CURATE  (looking  at  his  watch).  Past  nine,  past  nine. 

OLIVER  (jumping  up).  Je-hoshaphat  ! 

CURATE.  Oliver  !  Oliver  !  My  dear  lad  !  Swearing 
27 


28  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  n 

at  your  age  !  Really,  I  almost  feel  it  my  duty  to  inform 
your  aunt 

OLIVER.  P'at  lot  of  swearing  in  just  mentioning  one 
of  the  Kings  of  Israel. 

CURATE.  Of  Judah,  dear  boy,  of  Judah.  To  be 
ignorant  on  such  a  vital  matter  makes  it  even  more 
reprehensible.  I  cannot  believe  that  our  dear  Miss 
Pinniger  has  so  neglected  your  education  that 

Enter  our  dear  MISS  PINNIGER,  ike  Governess. 

GOVERNESS.  Ah,  Mr.  Smilax  ;  how  pleasant  to  see  you  ! 

CURATE.  My  dear  Miss  Pinniger  !  You  will  forgive 
me  for  interrupting  you  in  your  labours,  but  there  is  a 
small  matter  of — ah  ! 

GOVERNESS.  Certainly,  Mr.  Smilax.  I  will  walk  down 
to  the  gate  with  you.  Oliver,  where  is  Geraldine  ? 

OLIVER.  Aunt  Jane  wanted  her. 

GOVERNESS.  Well,  you  should  be  at  your  lessons.  It's 
nine  o'clock.  The  fact  that  I  am  momentarily  absent 
from  the  room  should  make  no  difference  to  your  zeal. 

OLIVER  (without  conviction).  No,  Miss  Pinniger.  (He 
sits  down  at  his  desk,  putting  "  Marooned  in  the  Pacific" 
inside  it.) 

CURATE  (playfully).  For  men  must  work,  Oliver,  men 

must  work.  How  doth  the  little  busy  bee Yes, 

Miss  Pinniger,  I  am  with  you.  {They  go  out. 

OLIVER  (opening  his  poetry  book  and  saying  it  to 
himself}.  It  was  a  summer  evening — It  was  a  summer 
evening — (He  stops,  refers  to  the  book,  and  then  goes  on  to 
himself)  Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done.  It  was  a  summer 
evening,  Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done 

Enter  GERALDINE — or  JILL. 
JILL.  Where's  Pin  ? 
OLIVER.  Hallo,  Jill.     Gone  off  with  Dearly  Beloved 


ACT  n]  MAKE-BELIEVE  29 

Her  momentary  absence  from  the  room  should  make 
no  difference  to  your  zeal,  my  dear  Geraldine.  And 
what  are  we  studying  this  morning,  dear  child  ?  (To 
himself}  It  was  a  summer  evening,  Old  Kaspar's  work 
was  done. 

JILL  (giggling).  Is  that  Pin  ? 

OLIVER.  Pin  and  Dearly  Beloved  between  them. 
She's  a  bit  batey  this  morning. 

JILL  (at  her  desk).  And  all  my  sums  have  done  them- 
selves wrong.  (Hard  at  it  with  paper  and  pencil)  What's 
nine  times  seven,  Oliver  ? 

OLIVER.  Fifty-six.  Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done. 
Jolly  well  wish  mine  was.  And  he  before  his  cottage 
door.  Fat  lot  of  good  my  learning  this  stuff  if  I'm 
going  to  be  a  sailor.  I  bet  Beatty  didn't  mind  what 
happened  to  rotten  old  Kaspar  when  he  saw  a  German 
submarine. 

JILL.  Six  and  carry  five.  Aunt  Jane  has  sent  for  the 
doctor  to  look  at  my  chest. 

OLIVER.  What's  the  matter  with  your  chest  ? 

JILL.  I  blew  my  nose  rather  loud  at  prayers  this 
morning. 

OLIVER.  I  say,  Jill,  you  are  going  it  ! 

JILL.  It  wasn't  my  fault,  Oliver.  Aunt  Jane  turned 
over  two  pages  at  once  and  made  me  laugh,  so  I  had  to 
turn  it  into  a  blow. 

OLIVER.  Bet  you  what  you  like  she  knew. 

JILL.  Of  course  she  did,  and  she'll  tell  the  doctor, 
and  he'll  be  as  beastly  as  he  can.  What  did  she  say 
to  you  for  being  late  ? 

OLIVER.  I  said  somebody  had  bagged  my  sponge,  and 
she  wouldn't  like  me  to  come  down  to  prayers  all 
unsponged,  and  she  said,  "  Excuses,  Oliver,  always 
excuses  !  Leave  me.  I  will  see  you  later."  Suppose 
that  means  I've  got  to  go  to  bed  this  afternoon.  Jill, 


SO  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  n 

if  I  do,  be  sporty  and  bring  me  up  "  Marooned  in  the 
Pacific." 

JILL.  They'll  lock  the  door.     They  always  do. 

OLIVER.  Then  I  shall  jolly  well  go  up  for  a  handker- 
chief this  morning,  and  shove  it  in  the  bed,  just  in  case. 
Cave — here's  Pin. 

MISS  PINNIGER  returns  to  find  them  full  of  zeal. 

GOVERNESS  (sitting  donm  at  her  desk).  Well,  Oliver,  have 
you  learnt  your  piece  of  poetry  ? 

OLIVER  (nervously).  I — I  think  so,  Miss  Pinniger. 

GOVERNESS.  Close  the  book,  and  stand  up  and  say  it. 
(Oliver  takes  a  last  despairing  look,  and  stands  up.)  Well  ? 

OLIVER.  It  was  a  summer  evening — 

GOVERNESS.  The  title  and  the  author  first,  Oliver. 
Everything  in  its  proper  order. 

OLIVER.  Oh,  I  say,  I  didn't  know  I  had  to  learn  the 
title. 

JILL  (in  a  whisper).  After  Blenheim. 

GOVERNESS.  Geraldine,  kindly  attend  to  your  own  work. 

OLIVER.  After  Blenheim.     It  was  a  summer  evening. 

GOVERNESS.  After  Blenheim,  by  Robert  Southey.  One 
of  our  greatest  poets. 

OLIVER.  After  Blenheim,  by  Robert  Southey,  one  of 
our  greatest  poets.  It  was  a  summer  evening,  Old 
Kaspar's  work  was  done — er — Old  Kaspar's  work  was 
done — er — work  was  done,  er.  .  .  . 

GOVERNESS.  And  he  before 

OLIVER.  Oh  yes,  of  course.  And  he  before — er — and 
he  before — er — It  was  a  summer  evening,  Old  Kaspar's 

work  was  done,  and  he  before — er— and  he  before 

Er,  it  mas  a  summer  evening 

GOVERNESS.  So  you  have  already  said,  Oliver. 

OLIVER.  I  just  seem  to  have  forgotten  this  bit,  Miss 
Pinniger.  And  he  before 


ACT  n]  MAKE-BELIEVE  31 

GOVERNESS.  Well,  what  was  he  before  ? 

OLIVER  (hopefully).  Blenheim  ?  Oh  no,  it  was  after 
Blenheim. 

GOVERNESS  (wearily).  His  cottage  door. 

OLIVER.  Oo,  yes.  And  he  before  his  cottage  door 
was  sitting  in  the  sun.  (He  clears  his  throat)  Was  sitting 
in  the  sun.  Er — (He  coughs  again) — er 

GOVERNESS.  You  have  a  cough,  Oliver.  Perhaps  the 
doctor  had  better  see  you  when  he  comes  to  see 
Geraldine. 

OLIVER.  It  was  just  something  tickling  my  throat, 
Miss  Pinniger.  Er — it  was  a  summer  evening. 

GOVERNESS.  You  haven't  learnt  it,  Oliver  ? 

OLIVER.  Yes,  I  have,  Miss  Pinniger,  only  I  can't 
quite  remember  it.  And  he  before  his  cottage  door — 

GOVERNESS.  Is  it  any  good,  Geraldine,  asking  you  if 
you  have  got  any  of  your  sums  right  ? 

JILL.  I've  got  one,  Miss  Pinniger  .  .  .  nearly  right 
.  .  .  except  for  some  of  the  figures. 

GOVERNESS.  Well,  we  shall  have  to  spend  more  time 
at  our  lessons,  that's  all.  This  afternoon — ah — er — 

(She   stands    up   as   AUNT   JANE    and   the    DOCTOR 
come  in?) 

AUNT  JANE.  I'm  sorry  to  interrupt  lessons,  Miss 
Pinniger, but  I  have  brought  the  Doctor  to  see  Geraldine. 
(To  DOCTOR)  You  will  like  her  to  go  to  her  room  ? 

DOCTOR.  No,  no,  dear  lady.  There  is  no  need.  Her 
pulse — (He  feels  if) — dear,  dear  !  Her  tongue — (She 
puts  it  out) — tut-tut !  A  milk  diet,  plenty  of  rice-pudding, 
and  perhaps  she  would  do  well  to  go  to  bed  this  after- 
noon. 

AUXT  JANE.  I  will  see  to  it,  doctor. 

JILL  (mutinously).  I  feel  quite  well. 

DOCTOR  (to  AUNT  JANE).  A  dangerous  symptom. 
Plenty  of  rice-pudding. 


32  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  ir 

GOVERNESS.  Oliver  was  coughing  just  now. 

OLIVER  (to  himself).  Shut  up  ! 

DOCTOR  (turning  to  OLIVER).  Ah  !  His  pulse — (Feels  if) 
— tut-tut !  His  tongue — (OLIVER  puts  it  out)  Dear,  dear  ! 
The  same  treatment,  dear  lady,  as  prescribed  in  the 
other  case. 

OLIVER  (under  his  breath).  Beast ! 

AUNT  JANE.  Castor-oil,  liquorice-powder,  ammoniated 
quinine — anything  of  that  nature,  doctor  ? 

DOCTOR.  As  necessary,  dear  lady,  as  necessary.  The 
system  must  be  stimulated.  Nature  must  be  reinforced. 

AUNT  JANE  (to  GOVERNESS).  Which  do  they  dislike 
least  ? 

OLIVER  and  JILL  (hastily}.  Liquorice-powder  ! 

DOCTOR.  Then  concentrate  on  the  other  two,  dear 
lady. 

AUNT  JANE.  Thank  you,  doctor.  [They  go  out. 

GOVERNESS.  We  will  now  go  on  with  our  lessons. 
Oliver,  you  will  have  opportunities  in  your  bedroom  this 
afternoon  of  learning  your  poetry.  By  the  way,  I  had 
better  have  that  book  which  you  were  reading  when 
I  came  in  just  now. 

OLIVER  (trying  to  be  surprised).  Which  book  ? 

JILL  (nobly  doing  her  best  to  save  the  situation).  Miss 
Pinniger,  if  you're  multiplying  rods,  poles,  or  perches 
by  nine,  does  it  matter  if 

GOVERNEST.  I  am  talking  to  Oliver,  Geraldine.  Where 
is  that  book,  Oliver  ? 

OLIVER.  Oh,  /  know  the  one  you  mean.  I  must  have 
put  it  down  somewhere.  (He  looks  vaguely  about  the 
room.} 

GOVERNESS.  Perhaps  you  put  it  in  your  desk. 

OLIVER.  My  desk  ? 

JILL  (going  up  to  MISS  PINNIGER  with  her  rvorK).  You 
see,  it's  all  gone  wrong  here,  and  I  think  I  must  have 


ACT  ii]  MAKE-BELIEVE  33 

multiplied (Moving  in  front  of  her  as  she  moves) 

1  think  I  must  have  multiplied 

(Under  cover  of  this,  OLIVER  makes  a  great  effort  to 
get  the  book  into  JILL'S  desk,  but  it  is  no  good.) 

GOVERNESS  (brushing  aside  JILL  and  advancing  on  OLIVER). 
Thank  you,  /  will  take  it. 

OLIVER  (looking  at  the  title).  Oh  yes,  this  is  the  one. 

GOVERNESS.  And  I  will  speak  to  your  aunt  at  once 
about  the  behaviour  of  both  of  you.  [She  goes  out. 

OLIVER  (gallantly).  I  don't  care. 

JILL.  I  did  try  to  help  you,  Oliver. 

OLIVER.  You  wait.  Won't  I  jolly  well  bag  something 
of  hers  one  day,  just  when  she  wants  it. 

JILL.  I'm  afraid  you'll  find  the  afternoon  rather  tiring 
without  your  book.  What  will  you  do  ? 

OLIVER.  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  think. 

JILL.  What  shall  you  think  about  ? 

OLIVER.  I  shall  think  I'm  on  my  desert  island. 

JILL.  Which  desert  island  ? 

OLIVER.  The  one  I  always  pretend  I'm  on  when  I'm 
thinking. 

JILL.  Isn't  there  any  one  else  on  it  ever  ? 

OLIVER.  Oo,  lots  of  pirates  and  Dyaks  and  cannibals 
and — other  people. 

JILL.  What  sort  of  other  people  ? 

OLIVER.  I  shan't  tell  you.  This  is  a  special  think  I 
thought  last  night.  As  soon  as  I  thought  of  it,  I  decided 
to  keep  it  for  (impressively)  a  moment  of  great  emergency. 

JILL  (silenced).  Oh  !  .  .  .  Oliver  ? 

OLIVER    Yes  ? 

JILL.  Let  me  be  on  your  desert  island  this  time. 
Because  I  did  try  to  help  you. 

OLIVER.  Well — well (Generously)  Well,  you  can 

if  you  like. 

JILL.  Oh,  thank  you,   Oliver.     Won't  you   tell  me 

D 


34  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  n 

what  it's  about,  and  then  we  can  both  think  it  together 
this  afternoon. 

OLIVER.  I  expect  you'll  think  all  sorts  of  silly  things 
that  never  happen  on  a  desert  island. 

JILL.  I'll  try  not  to,  Oliver,  if  you  tell  me. 

OLIVER.  All  right. 

JILL  (coming  close  to  him).  Go  on. 

OLIVER.  Well,  you  see,  I've  been  wrecked,  you  see, 
and  the  ship  has  foundered  with  all  hands,  you  see,  and 
I've  been  cast  ashore  on  a  desert  island,  you  see. 

JILL.  Haven't  I  been  cast  ashore  too  ? 

OLIVER.  Well,  you  will  be  this  afternoon,  of  course. 
Well,  you  see,  we  land  on  the  island,  you  see,  and  it's 
a  perfectly  ripping  island,  you  see,  and — and  we  land 
on  it,  you  see,  and  .  .  . 


But  rve  are  getting  on  too  fast.  When  the  good  ship 
crashed  upon  the  rock  and  split  in  twain,  it  seemed  like  that 
all  aboard  must  perish.  Fortunately  OLIVER  was  made 
of  stern  mettle.  Hastily  constructing  a  raft  and  placing 
the  now  unconscious  JILL  upon  it,  he  launched  it  into  the 
seething  maelstrom  of  waters  and  pushed  off.  Tossed  like 
a  cockle-shell  upon  the  mountainous  waves,  the  tiny  craft 
with  its  precious  freight  was  in  imminent  danger  of 
foundering.  But  OLIVER  was  made  of  stern  mettle.  With 
dauntless  courage  he  rigged  a  jury-mast,  and  placed  a 
telescope  to  his  eye.  "  Pull  for  the  lagoon,  JILL,"  cried  the 
dauntless  OLIVER,  and  in  another  moment.  .  .  . 

As  the  raft  glides  into  the  still  tvaters  beyond  the  reef, 
we  can  see  it  more  clearly.  Can  it  be  JILL'S  bed,  with 
OLIVER  in  his  pyjamas  perched  on  the  rail,  and  holding 
up  his  bath-towel1}  Does  he  shorten  sail  for  a  moment  to 
thump  his  chest  and  say,  "But  OLIVER  was  made  of  stern 
mettle  "  ?  Or  is  it • 


ACT  n]  MAKE-BELIEVE  35 

But  the  sun  is  sinking  behind  the  swamp  where  the  rattle- 
snakes bask.  For  a  moment  longer  the  sail  gleams  like 
copper  in  its  rays,  and  then—jizz-z — we  have  lost  it. 
See  !  Is  that  speck  on  the  inky  black  waters  the  dauntless 
Oliver?  It  is.  Let  us  follow  to  the  island  and  see  what 
adventures  befall  him. 

SCENE  II.  —  It  is  the  island  which  we  have  dreamed 
about  all  our  lives.  But  at  present  we  cannot  see  it 
properly,  for  it  is  dark.  In  one  of  those  tropical 
darknesses  which  can  be  felt  rather  than  seen  OLIVER 
hands  JILL  out  of  the  boat. 

OLIVER.  Tread  carefully,  Jill,  there  are  lots  of  deadly 
rattlesnakes  about. 

JILL  (stepping  hastily  back  into  the  boat).  Oli-ver  ! 
OLIVER.  You  hear  the  noise  of  their  rattles  sometimes 
when   the   sun   is   sinking   behind   the   swamp.      (The 
deadly  rattle  of  the  rattlesnake  is  heard)  There  ! 

JILL.  Oh,  Oliver,  are  they  very  deadly  ?  Because  if 
they  are,  I  don't  think  I  shall  like  your  island. 

OLIVER.  Those  aren't.  I  always  have  their  teeth 
taken  out  when  ladies  are  coming.  Besides,  it's  day- 
light now. 

(JVith  a  rapidity  common  in  the  tropics — although  it 
may  just  be  OLIVER'S  gallantry — the  sun  climbs 
out  of  the  sea,  and  floods  the  island.    JILL,  no 
longer  frightened,  steps  out  of  the  boat,  and 
they  walk  up  to  the  clearing  in  the  middle?) 
JILL  (looking  about  her).  Oh,  what  a  lovely  island !     I 
think  it's  lovely,  Oliver. 

OLIVER  (modestly^.  It's  pretty  decent,  isn't  it  ?  Won't 
you  lie  down  ?  I  generally  lie  down  here  and  watch  the 
turtles  coming  out  of  the  sea  to  deposit  their  eggs  on 
the  sand. 


36  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  n 

JILL  (lying  down).  How  many  do  they  de-deposit 
usually,  Oliver  ? 

OLIVER.  Oh,  three — or  a  hundred.  Just  depends  how 
hungry  I  am.  Have  a  bull's-eye,  won't  you  ? 

JILL  (excitedly}.  Oh,  did  you  bring  some  ? 

OLIVER  (annoyed).  Bring  some  ?  (Brightening  up)  Oh, 
you  mean  from  the  wreck  ? 

JILL  (hastily).  Yes,  from  the  wreck.  I  mean  besides 
the  axe  and  the  bag  of  nails  and  the  gunpowder. 

OLIVER.  Couldn't.  The  ship  sank  with  all  hands  before 
I  could  get  them.  But  it  doesn't  matter,  because  (going 
up  to  one  of  the  trees]  I  recognise  this  as  the  bull's-eye 
tree.  (He  picks  a  couple  of  bull' s-eyes  and  gives  one  to  her.} 

JILL.  Oh,  Oliver,  how  lovely  !  Thank  you.  (She  puts 
it  in  her  mouth} 

OLIVER  (sucking  hard).  There  was  nothing  but  bread- 
fruit trees  here  the  first  time  I  was  marooned  on  it. 
Rotten  things  to  have  on  a  decent  island.  So  I  planted 
a  bull's-eye  tree,  and  a  barley-sugar-cane  grove,  and  one 
or  two  other  things,  and  made  a  jolly  ripping  place  of  it. 

JILL  (pointing).  What's  that  tree  over  there  ? 

OLIVER.  That  one  ?     Rice-pudding  tree. 

JILL  (getting  up  indignantly).  Oliver  !  Take  me  back 
to  the  boat  at  once. 

OLIVER.  I  say,  shut  up,  Jill.  You  didn't  think  I  meant 
it  for  you,  did  you  ? 

JILL.  But  there's  only  you  and  me  on  the  island. 

OLIVER.  What  about  the  domestic  animals  ?  I 
suppose  they've  got  to  eat. 

JILL.  Oh,  how  lovely  !  Have  we  got  a  goat  and  a 
parrot,  and  a — a — 

OLIVER.  Much  better  than  that.  Look  in  that  cage 
there. 

JILL.  Oh,  is  that  a  cage  ?  I  never  noticed  it.  What 
do  I  do  ? 


ACT  n]  MAKE-BELIEVE  37 

OLIVER  (going  to  if).  Here,  I'll  show  you  (He  draws 
the  blind,  and  the  DOCTOR  is  exposed  sitting  on  a  slump  of 
wood  and  blinking  at  the  sudden  light)  What  do  you  think 
of  that  ? 

JILL.  Oliver  ! 

OLIVER  (proudly").  I  thought  of  that  in  bed  one  night. 
Spiffing  idea,  isn't  it  ?  I've  got  some  other  ones  in  the 
plantation  over  there.  Awfully  good  specimens.  I  feed 
'em  on  rice-pudding. 

JILL.  Can  this  one  talk  ? 

OLIVER.  I'm  teaching  it.  (Stirring  it  up  with  a  stick) 
Come  up  there. 

DOCTOR  (mumbling).  Ninety-nine,  ninety-nine  .  .  . 

OLIVER.  That's  all  it  can  say  at  present.  I'm  going 
to  give  it  a  swim  in  the  lagoon  to-morrow.  I  want  to 
see  if  there  are  any  sharks.  If  there  aren't,  then  we 
can  bathe  there  afterwards. 

(The  DOCTOR  shudders.) 

JILL.  Have  you  given  it  a  name  yet  ?  I  think  I 
should  like  to  call  it  Fluffkins. 

OLIVER.  Righto  !  Good  night,  Fluffkins.  Time  little 
doctors  were  in  bed.  (He  pulls  down  the  blind.) 

JILL  (lying  down  again).  Well,  I  think  it's  a  lovely 
island. 

OLIVER  (lying  beside  her).  If  there's  anything  you  want, 
you  know,  you've  only  got  to  say  so.  Pirates  or  anything 
like  that.  There's  a  ginger-beer  well  if  you're  thirsty. 

JILL  (closing  her  eyes).  I'm  quite  happy,  Oliver, 
thank  you. 

OLIVER  (after  a  pause,  a  little  awkwardly).  Jill,  you 
didn't  ever  want  to  marry  a  pirate,  did  you  ? 

JILL  (still  on  her  back  with  her  eyes  shut).  I  hadn't 
thought  about  it  much,  Oliver  dear. 

OLIVER.  Because  I  can  get  you  an  awfully  decent 
pirate,  if  you  like,  and  if  I  was  his  brother-in-law  it 


38  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  n 

would  be  ripping.  I've  often  been  marooned  with  him, 
of  course,  but  never  as  his  brother-in-law. 

JILL.  Why  don't  you  marry  his  daughter  and  be  his 
son-in-law  ? 

OLIVER.  He  hasn't  got  a  daughter. 

JILL.  Well,  you  could  think  him  one. 

OLIVER.  I  don't  want  to.  If  ever  I'm  such  a  silly  ass 
as  to  marry,  which  I'm  jolly  well  not  going  to  be,  I  shall 
marry  a — a  dusky  maiden.  Jill,  be  sporty.  All  girls 
have  to  get  married  some  time.  It's  different  with 
men. 

JILL.  Very  well,  Oliver.  I  don't  want  to  spoil  your 
afternoon. 

OLIVER.  Good  biz.  (He  stands  up,  shuts  his  eyes  and 
waves  his  hands  about.) 

Enter  the  PIRATE  CHIEF. 

PIRATE  CHIEF  (with  aflourisK).  Gentles,  your  servant. 
Commodore  Crookshank,  at  your  service.  Better  known 
on  the  Spanish  Main  as  One-eared  Eric. 

OLIVER.  Glad  to  meet  you,  Commodore.  I'm — er — 
Two-toed  Thomas,  the  Terror  of  the  Dyaks.  But  you 
may  call  me  Oliver,  if  you  like.  This  is  my  sister  Jill — 
the  Pride  of  the  Pampas. 

PIRATE  CHIEF  (with  another  bow).  Charmed  ! 

JILL  (politely).  Don't  mention  it,  Commodore. 

OLIVER.  My  sister  wants  to  marry  you.  Er — carry 
on.  (lie  moves  a  little  away  from  them  arid  lies  down.") 

JILL  (sitting  down  and  indicating  a  place  beside  her). 
Won't  you  sit  down,  Commodore  ? 

PIRATE  CHIEF.  Thank  you,  madam.  The  other  side  if 
I  may.  I  shall  hear  better  if  you  condescend  to  accept 
me.  (lie  sits  down  on  the  other  side  of  her.") 

JILL.  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry  !  I  was  forgetting  about  your 
ear. 


ACT  H]  MAKE-BELIEVE  39 

PIRATE  CHIEF.  Don't  mention  it.  A  little  discussion 
in  the  La  Plata  river  with  a  Spanish  gentleman.  At  the 
end  of  it  I  was  an  ear  short  and  he  was  a  head  short.  It 
was  considered  in  the  family  that  I  had  won. 

(There  is  an  awkward  pause.) 

JILL  (shyly).  Well,  Commodore  ? 

PIRATE  CHIEF.  Won't  you  call  me  Eric  ? 

JILL.  I  am  waiting,  Eric. 

PIRATB  CHIEF.  Madam,  I  am  not  a  marrying  man,  not 
to  any  extent,  but  if  you  would  care  to  be  Mrs.  Crook- 
shank,  I'd  undertake  on  my  part  to  have  the  deck 
swabbed  every  morning,  and  to  put  a  polish  on  the 
four-pounder  that  you  could  see  your  pretty  face  in. 

JILL.  Eric,  how  sweet  of  you.  But  I  think  you  must 
speak  to  my  brother  in  the  library  first.  Oli-ver  ! 

OLIVER  (coming  up).  Hallo  !     Settled  it  ? 

JILL.  It's  all  settled,  Oliver,  between  Eric  and  myself, 
but  you  will  want  to  ask  him  about  his  prospects,  won't 
you  ? 

OLIVER.  Yes,  yes,  of  course. 

PIRATE.  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  tell  you  anything  I 
can,  sir.  I  think  I  may  say  that  I  am  doing  fairly  well 
in  my  profession. 

OLIVER.  What's  your  ship  ?     A  sloop  or  a  frigate  ? 

PIRATE.  A  brigantine. 

JILL  (excited).  Oh,  that's  what  Oliver  puts  on  his  hair 
when  he  goes  to  a  party. 

OLIVER  (annoyed).  Shut  up,  Jill  !  A  brigantine  ? 
Ah  yes,  a  rakish  craft,  eh,  Commodore  ? 

PIRATE  (earnestly").  Extremely  rakish. 

OLIVER.  And  how  many  pieces  of  eight  have  you  ? 

PIRATE.  Nine  thousand. 

OLIVER.  Ah  !     (To  JILL)  What's  nine  times  eight  ? 

JILL  (to  herself).  Nine  times  eight. 

OLIVER  (to  himself).  Nine  times  eight. 


40  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  n 

PIRATE  (to  himself).  Nine  times  eight. 

JILL.  Seventy-two. 

PIRATE.  I  made  it  seventy-one,  but  I  expect  you're 

right. 

OLIVER.  Then  you've  seventy-two  thousand  pieces 
altogether  ? 

PIRATE.  Yes,  sir,  about  that. 

OLIVER.  Any  doubloons  ? 

PIRATE.  Hundreds  of  'em. 

OLIVER.  Ingots  of  gold  ? 

PIRATE.  Lashings  of  'em. 

JILL.  And  he's  going  to  polish  up  the  four-pounder 
until  I  can  see  my  face  in  it. 

OLIVER.  I  was  just  going  to  ask  you  about  your  guns. 
You've  got  'em  fore  and  aft  of  course  ? 

PIRATE.  Yes,  sir.  A  four-pounder  fore  and  a  half- 
pounder  haft. 

OLIVER  (a  little  embarrassed).  And  do  you  ever  have 
brothers-in-law  in  your  ship  ? 

PIRATE.  Well,  I  never  have  had  yet,  but  I  have  always 
been  looking  about  for  one. 

JILL.  Oh,  Oliver,  isn't  Eric  a  nice  man  ? 

OLIVER  (casually).  I  suppose  the  captain's  brother-in- 
law  is  generally  the  first  man  to  board  the  Spaniard  with 
his  cutlass  between  his  teeth  ? 

PIRATE.  You  might  almost  say  always.  Many  a  ship 
on  the  Spanish  Main  I've  had  to  leave  unboarded  through 
want  of  a  brother-in-law.  They're  touchy  about  it 
somehow.  Unless  the  captain's  brother-in-law  comes 
first  they  get  complaining. 

OLIVER  (bashfully).  And  there's  just  one  other  thing. 
If  the  brigantine  happened  to  put  in  at  an  island  for 
water,  and  the  captain's  brother-in-law  happened — 
just  happened — to  be  a  silly  ass  and  go  and  marry  a 
dusky  maiden,  whom  he  met  on  the  beach 


ACT  n]  MAKE-BELIEVE  41 

PIRATE.  Bless  you,  it's  always  happening  to  a  cap- 
tain's brother-in-law. 

OLIVER    (in    a    magnificent   manner).    Then,   Captain 
Crookshank,  you  may  take  my  sister  ! 
JILL.  Thank  you,  Oliver. 

(It  is  not  every  day  thai  one-eared  ERIC,  that  famous 
chieftain,  marries  into  the  family  of  the  TERROR 
OF  THE  DYAKS.  Naturally  the  occasion  is 
celebrated  by  the  whole  pirate  crew  with  a  rousing 
chorus,  followed  by  a  dance  in  which  the  dusky 
maidens  of  the  Island  join.  At  the  end  of  it, 
JILL  finds  herself  alone  with  TUA-HEETA,  the 
Dusky  Princess?) 

JILL  (fashionably}.  I'm  so  pleased  to  meet  my 
brother's  future  wife.  It's  so  nice  of  you  to  come  to 
see  me.  You  will  have  some  tea,  won't  you  ?  (She 
puts  out  her  hand  and  presses  an  imaginary  bell)  I  wanted 
to  see  you,  because  I  can  tell  you  so  many  little  things 
about  my  brother,  which  I  think  you  ought  to  know. 
You  see,  Eric — my  husband 

TUA-HEETA.    ErCCC  ? 

JILL.  Yes.  I  wish  you  could  see  him.  He'b  ^o  nice- 
looking.  But  I'm  afraid  he  won't  be  home  to  tea. 
That's  the  worst  of  marrying  a  sailor.  They  are  away 
so  much.  Well,  I  was  telling  you  about  Oliver.  I  think 
it  would  be  better  if  you  knew  at  once  that — he  doesn't 
like  rice-pudding. 

TUA-HEETA.  Rice-poodeeng  ? 

JILL.  Yes,  he  hates  it.  It  is  very  important  that  you 
should  remember  that.  Then  there's  another  thing — 
(An  untidy  looking  servant  comes  in.  Can  it  be — can  it 
possibly  be  AUNT  JANE  ?  Horrors  /)  He  dislikes —  Oh, 
there  you  are,  Jane.  You've  been  a  very  long  time 
answering  the  bell. 

AUNT  JANE.  I'm  so  sorry  ma'am,  I  was  just  dressing. 


42  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  n 

JILL.  Excuses,  Jane,  always  excuses.  Leave  me. 
Take  a  week's  notice.  (To  TUA-HEETA)  You  must 
excuse  my  maid.  She's  very  stupid.  Tea  at  once,  Jane. 
(AUNT  JANE  sniff's  and  goes  off.)  What  was  I  saying  ? 
Oh  yes,  about  Oliver.  He  doesn't  care  for  cod-liver 
oil  in  the  way  that  some  men  do.  You  would  be  wise 
not  to  force  it  on  him  just  at  first.  .  .  .  Have  you  any 
idea  where  you  are  going  to  live  ? 

TUA-HEETA.  Live  ?  (These  dusky  maidens  are  no  con- 
versationalists) 

JILL.  I  expect  Oliver  will  wish  to  reside  at  Hammer- 
smith, so  convenient  for  the  City.  You'll  like  Hammer- 
smith. You'll  go  to  St.  Paul's  Church,  I  expect.  The 
Vicar  will  be  sure  to  call.  (Enter  AUNT  JANE  with  small 
tea-table)  Ah,  here's  tea.  (To  JANE)  You're  very  slow, 
Jane. 

AUNT  JANE.  I'm  sorry,  ma'am. 

JILL.  It's  no  good  being  sorry.  Take  another  week's 
notice.  (To  TUA-HEETA)  You  must  forgive  my  talking 
to  my  maid.  She  wants  such  a  lot  of  looking  after. 
(JANE  puts  down  the  table)  That  will  do,  Jane.  (JANE 
bumps  against  the  table)  Dear,  dear,  how  clumsy  you  are. 
What  wages  am  I  giving  you  now  ? 

AUNT  JANE.  A  shilling  a  month,  ma'am. 

JILL.  Well,  we'd  better  make  it  ninepence.  (JANE 
goes  out  in  tears)  Servants  are  a  great  nuisance,  aren't 
they  ?  Jane  is  a  peculiarly  stupid  person.  She  used 
to  be  aunt  to  my  brother,  and  I  have  only  taken  her 
on  out  of  charity.  (She  pours  out  from  an  imaginary 
tea-pot)  Milk  ?  Sugar  ?  (She  puts  them  in  and  hands 
the  imaginary  cup  to  TUA-HEETA.) 

TUA-HEETA.  Thank  you.     (Drinks) 

JILL  (pouring  herself  a  cup).  I  hope  you  like  China. 
(She  drinks,  and  then  rings  an  imaginary  bell)  Well,  as  I  was 
saying (Enter  AUNT  JANE.)  You  can  clear  away,  Jane. 


ACT  n]  MAKE-BELIEVE  43 

AUNT  JANE.  Yes,  ma'am. 

(She   clears   away   the  tea  and  TUA-HEETA  and — 
very  quickly — herself,  as  OLIVER  comes  back. 
OLIVER    has    been    discussing    boarding-tactics 
with  his  brother-in-law.     CAPTAIN  CROOKSHANK 
belongs  to  the  now  old-fashioned  Marlinspike 
School;  OLIVER  is  for  well-primed  pistols?) 
JILL.  Oh,   Oliver,   I   love   your  island.      I've    been 
thinking    things    all    by    myself.     You're    married    to 
Tua-heeta.     You  don't  mind,  do  you  ? 

OLIVER.  Not  at  all,  Jill.  Make  yourself  at  home. 
I've  just  been  trying  the  doctor  in  the  lagoon.  There 
were  sharks  there,  after  all,  so  we'll  have  to  find  another 
place  for  bathing.  Oh,  and  I  shot  an  elephant.  What 
would  you  like  to  do  now  ? 

JILL.  Just  let's  lie  here  and  see  what  happens.  (What 
happens  is  that  a  cassowary  comes  along.')  Oh,  what  a 
lovely  bird  !  Is  it  an  ostrich  ? 

(The  cassowary  sniff's  the  air,  puts  its  beak  to 

the  ground  and  goes  off  again?) 
OLIVER.  Silly  !     It's  a  cassowary,  of  course. 
JILL.  What's  a  cassowary  ? 
OLIVER.  Jill !     Don't  you  remember  the  rhyme  ? 

I  wish  I  were  a  cassowary 

Upon  the  plains  of  Timbuctoo 
And  then  I'd  eat  a  missionary — 

And  hat  and  gloves  and  hymn-book  too  ! 

JILL.  Is  that  all  they're  for  ? 

OLIVER.  Well,  what  else  would  you  want  them  for  ? 
(A    MISSIONARY,   pith  -  helmet,   gloves,   hymn  -  book, 

umbrella,   all  complete — creeps   cautiously   up. 

He  bears  a  strong  likeness  to  the  curate,  the 

REVEREND  SMILAX.) 

MISSIONARY.  I  am  sorry  to  intrude  upon  your  privacy, 


44  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  n 

dear  friends,  but  have  you  observed  a  cassowary  on 
this  island,  apparently  looking  for  something  ? 

OLIVER.  Yes,  we  saw  one  just  now. 

MISSIONARY  (shuddering).  Dear,  dear,  dear.  You  didn't 
happen  to  ask  him  what  was  the  object  of  his  researches  ? 

JILL.  He  went  so  quickly. 

MISSIONARY  (coming  out  of  the  undergrowth  to  them).  I 
wonder  if  you  have  ever  heard  of  a  little  rhyme  which 
apparently  attributes  to  the  bird  in  question,  when 
residing  in  the  level  pastures  of  Timbuctoo,  an  unholy 
lust  for  the  body  and  appurtenances  thereto  of  an 
unnamed  clerical  gentleman  ? 

OLIVER  I" 

and      (shouting  together].  Yes  !     Rather  ! 
JILL    1 

MISSIONARY.  Dear,  dear  !  Fortunately — I  say  for- 
tunately— this  is  not  Timbuctoo  !  (OLIVER  slips  away  and 
comes  back  with  a  notice-board  "  Timbuctoo,"  which  he 
places  at  the  edge  of  the  trees,  unseen  by  the  MISSIONARY, 
who  goes  on  talking  to  JILL)  I  take  it  that  a  cassowary 
residing  in  other  latitudes  is  of  a  more  temperate  habit. 
His  appetite,  I  venture  to  suggest,  dear  lady,  would  be 
under  better  restraint.  That  being  so,  I  may  perhaps 

safely (He  begins  to  move  off,  and  comes  suddenly  up 

to  the  notice-board)  Dear,  dear,  dear,  dear,  dear  !  This 
is  terrible  !  You  said,  I  think,  that  the — ah — bird  in 
question  was  moving  in  this  direction  ? 

OLIVER.  That's  right. 

MISSIONARY.  Then  I  shall  move,  hastily  yet  with  all 
due  precaution,  in  that  direction.  (He  walks  off  on  tip- 
toe, looking  over  his  shoulder  in  case  the  cassowary  should 
reappear.  Consequently,  he  does  not  observe  the  enormous 
CANNIBAL  rvho  has  appeared  from  Ihe  trees  on  the  right, 

until  he  bumps  into  him)  I  beg  your (lie  looks  up) 

Dear,  dear,  dear,  dear,  dear  ! 


ACT  n]  MAKE-BELIEVE  45 

CANNIBAL.  Boria,  boria,  boo  ! 

MISSIONARY.  Yes,  my  dear  sir,  it  is  as  you  say,  a 
beautiful  morning. 

CANNIBAL.  Boria,  boria,  boo  ! 

MISSIONARY.  But  I  was  just  going  a  little  walk — in 
this  direction — if  you  will  permit  me. 

CANNIBAL  (threateningly).  Boria,  boria,  boo  ! 
MISSIONARY.  I  have  noticed  it,  my  dear  sir,  I  have 
often  made  that  very  observation  to  my  parishioners. 
CANNIBAL  (very  threateningly).  Boria,  boria,  boo  ! 
MISSIONARY.  Oh,  what's  he  saying  ? 
OLIVER.  He  says  it's  his  birthday  to-morrow. 
CANNIBAL.  Wurra,  wurra  wug  ! 
OLIVER.  And  will  you  come  to  the  party  ? 
MISSIONARY  (to  CANNIBAL).  My  dear  sir,  it  is  most  kind 
of  you  to  invite  me,  but  a  prior  engagement  in  a  different 
part  of  the  country — a  totally  unexpected  call  upon  me 

in  another  locality — will  unfortunately 

(While  he  is  talking,  the  cassowary  comes  back, 
sidles  up  to  him,  and  taps  with  his  beak  on  the 
MISSIONARY'S  pith-helmet.) 

MISSIONARY  (absently,  without  looking  round).  Come 
in  !  ...  As  I  was  saying,  my  dear  sir —  -  (The  bird 
taps  again.  The  MISSIONARY  turns  round  annoyed)  Can't 

you  see  I'm  engaged Oh  dear,  dear,  dear,  dear, 

dear  ! 

(He  clasps  the  CANNIBAL  in  his  anguish,  recoils  from 
the  CANNIBAL  and  clasps  the  cassowary.     The 
three  of  them  go  off  together,  OLIVER  and  JILL 
following  eagerly  behind  to  see  who  gets  most.) 
(The  PIRATES   come   back,   each   carrying   a   small 
wooden   ammunition-box,   and   sit  round  in   a 
semicircle,  the  PIRATE  CHIEF  in  the  middle.} 
PIRATE.  Steward  !   Steward  ! 
STEWARD  (hurrying  in).  Yes,  sir,  coming,  sir. 


46  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  n 

CHIEF.  Now  then,  tumble  up,  my  lad.  I  would 
carouse.  Circulate  the  dry  ginger. 

STEWARD  {hurrying  ouf).  Yes,  sir,  going,  sir. 

CHIEF.  Look  lively,  my  lad,  look  lively. 

STEWARD  (hurrying  in).  Yes,  sir,  coming,  sir.  (He 
hands  round  mugs  to  them  all.) 

CHIEF  (rising).  Gentlemen  !  (They  all  stand  up)  The 
crew  of  the  Cocktail  will  carouse —  (They  all  take 
one  step  to  the  right,  one  back,  and  one  left — which  brings 
them  behind  their  boxes — and  then  place  their  right  feet 
on  the  boxes  together)  One  !  (They  raise  their  mugs) 
Two  !  (They  drink)  Three  !  (They  bang  down  their 
mugs)  Four  !  (They  wipe  their  mouths  with  the  backs 
of  their  hands')  So  !  ...  Steward  ! 

STEWARD.  Yes,  sir,  here,  sir. 

CHIEF.  The  carouse  is  over. 

STEWARD.  Yes,  sir.     (He  collects  the  mugs  and  goes  out?) 
(The  PIRATES  sit  down  again.) 

CHIEF  (addressing  the  men).  Having  passed  an  hour 

thus  in  feasting  and  song 

(Hark  !  is  it  the  voice  of  our  dear  MISS  PINNIGER  ?     It  is.) 

GOVERNESS  (off).  Oliver  !  Oliver  !  Jill  !  You  may 
get  up  now  and  come  down  to  tea. 

CHIEF.  Having,  as  I  say,  slept  off  our  carouse — 

GOVERNESS  (off).  Oliver  !     Jill  !     (She  comes  in)  Oh,  I 

beg  your  pardon,  I — er 

(All  the  PIRATES  rise  and  draw  their  weapons.) 

CHIEF.  Pray  do  not  mention  it.  (Polishing  his  pistol 
lovingly)  You  were  asking 

GOVERNESS.  I — I  was  1-looking  for  a  small  boy- 
Oliver 

CHIEF.  Oliver  ?  (To  IST  PIRATE)  Have  we  any  Olivers 
on  board  ? 

IST  PIRATE.  No,  Captain.     Only  Bath  Olivers. 

CHIEF  (to  GOVERNESS).  You  cannot  be  referring  to  my 


ACT  IT]  MAKE-BELIEVE  47 

brother-in-law,  hight  Two-Toed  Thomas,  the  Terror  of 
the  Dyaks  ? 

GOVERNESS.  Oh  no,  no Just  a  small  boy  and  his 

sister — Jill. 

CHIEF  (to  2ND  PIRATE).  Have  we  any  Jills  on  board  ? 

2ND  PIRATE.  No,  Captain.     Only  gills  of  rum. 

CHIEF  (to  GOVERNESS).  You  cannot  be  referring  to  Mrs 
Crookshank,  styled  the  Pride  of  the  Pampas  ? 

GOVERNESS.  Oh   no,   no,   I   am   so   sorry.     Perhaps 
I— er— 

CHIEF.  Wait,  woman.    (To  GTH  PIRATE)  Ernest,  offer 
your  seat  to  the  lady. 

(The  GTH  PIRATE  stands  up.) 

GOVERNESS  (nervously).  Oh  please  don't  trouble,  I'm 
getting  out  at  the  next  station — I  mean  I 

GTH  PIRATE  (thunderously).  Sit  down  ! 

(She  sits  down  tremblingly  and  he  stands  by  her  with 
his  pistol.) 

CHIEF.  Thank  you.    (To  IST  PIRATE)  Cecil,  have  you 
your  pencil  and  notebook  with  you  ? 

IST  PIRATE  (producing  them).  Ay,  ay,  Captain. 

CHIEF.  Then  we  will  cross-examine  the  prisoner.    (To 
GOVERNESS)  Name  ? 

GOVERNESS.  Pinmger. 

IST  PIRATE  (writing),  Pincher. 

CHIEF.  Christian  names,  if  any  ? 

GOVERNESS.  Letitia. 

IST  PIRATE  (writing).  Letisher — how  would  you  spell 
it,  Captain  ? 

CHIEF.  Spell  it  like  a  sneeze.    Age  ? 

GOVERNESS.  Twenty-three. 

CHIEF  (to  IST  PIRATE).  Habits — untruthful.    Appear- 
ance— against  her.     Got  that  ? 

IST  PIRATE.  Yes,  sir. 

CHIEF  (to  GOVERNESS).  And  what  are  you  for  ? 


4-8  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  n 

GOVERNESS.  I  teach.     Oliver  and  Jill,  you  know. 

CHIEF.  And  what  do  you  teach  them  ? 

GOVERNESS.  Oh,  everything.  Arithmetic,  French, 
Geography,  History,  Dancing • 

CHIEF  (holding  up  his  hand].  A  moment  !  I  would 
take  counsel  with  Percy.  (To  2ND  PIRATE)  Percy,  what 
shall  we  ask  her  in  Arithmetic  ?  (The  2ND  PIRATE 
whispers  to  him.]  Excellent.  (To  her)  If  you  really  are 
a  teacher  as  you  say,  answer  me  this  question.  The 
brigantine  Cocktail  is  in  longitude  4-0°  39'  latitude 
22°  50',  sailing  closchauled  on  the  port  tack  at  8  knots 
in  a  15-knot  nor '-nor'  westerly  breeze — how  soon  before 
she  sights  the  Azores  ? 

GOVERNESS.  I — I — I'm  afraid  I You  see — I 

CHIEF  (to  IST  PIRATE).  Arithmetic  rotten. 

IST  PIRATE  (writing).  Arithmetic  rotten. 

CHIEF  (to  SRD  PIRATE).  Basil,  ask  her  a  question  in 
French. 

SRD  PIRATE.  What  would  the  mate  of  a  French 
frigate  say  if  he  wanted  to  say  in  French,  "  Avast  there, 
ye  lubbering  swab  "  to  a  friend  like  ? 

GOVERNESS.  Oh,  but  I  hardly — I 

CHIEF  (to  IST  PIRATE).  French  futile. 

IST  PIRATE  (writing).  French  futile. 

CHIEF  (to  4TH  PIRATE).  I  don't  suppose  it's  much  use, 
Francis.  But  try  her  in  Geography. 

4TH  PIRATE.  Well  now,  lady.  If  you  was  wanting  a 
nice  creek  to  lay  up  cosy  in,  atween  Dago  Point  and 
the  Tortofitas,  where  would  you  run  to  ? 

GOVERNESS.  R-run  to  ?    But  that  isn't — of  course  I 

CHIEF  (to  IST  PIRATE).  Geography  ghastly. 

IST  PIRATE  (writing).  Geography  ghastly. 

CHIEF  (to  STH  PIRATE).  Give  her  a  last  chance,  Mervyn. 
See  if  she  knows  any  history. 

STII  PIRATE.  I   suppose  you  couldn't  tell  me  what 


ACT  n]  MAKE-BELIEVE  49 

year  it  was  when  old  John  Cann  took  the  Saucy  Codfish 
over  Black  Tooth  Reef  and  laid  her  alongside  the 
Spaniard  in  the  harbour  there,  and  up  comes  the  Don 
in  his  nightcap.  "  Shiver  my  timbers,"  he  says  in 
Spanish,  "  but  there's  only  one  man  in  the  whole  of 
the  Spanish  Main,"  he  says,  "  and  that's  John  Cann," 

he  says,  "  who  could " 

(The  GOVERNESS  looks  dumbly  at  him.') 

CHIEF.  She  couldn't.     History  hopeless. 

IST  PIRATE.  History  hopeless. 

CHIEF  (to  GOVERNESS).  What  else  do  you  teach  ? 

GOVERNESS.  Music,  dancing — er — but  I  don't  think 

CHIEF.  Steward  ! 

STEWARD  (coming  in).  Yes,  sir,  coming,  sir. 

CHIEF.  Concertina. 

STEWARD  (going  ouf).  Yes,  sir,  going,  sir. 

CHIEF  (to  GOVERNESS).  Can  you  dance  a  hornpipe  ? 

GOVERNESS.    No,  I 

CHIEF.  Dancing  dubious. 

IST  PIRATE  (writing).  Dancing  dubious. 

STEWARD  (coming  in).  Concertina,  sir. 

CHIEF.  Give  it  to  the  woman.    (He  takes  it  to  her.} 

GOVERNESS.  I'm  afraid  I (She  produces  one 

ghastly  noise  and  drops  the  concertina  in  alarm.) 

IST  PIRATE  (writing).  What  shall  I  say,  sir  ?  Music 
mouldy  or  music  measly  ? 

CHIEF  (standmg  up).  Gentlemen,  I  think  you  will 
agree  with  me  that  the  woman  Pinniger  has  proved 
that  she  is  utterly  incapable  of  teaching  anybody 
anything.  Twenty-five  years,  man  and  boy,  I  have 
sailed  the  Spanish  Main,  and  with  the  possible  exception 
of  a  dumb  and  half-witted  negro  whom  I  shipped  as 
cook  in  '64,  I  have  never  met  any  one  so  profoundly 
lacking  in  intellect.  I  propose,  therefore,  that  for  the 
space  of  twenty-four  hours  the  woman  Pinniger  should 

E 


50  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  n 

be  incarcerated  in  the  smuggler's  cave,  in  the  company 
of  a  black  beetle  of  friendly  temperament. 
GOVERNESS.  Mercy  !     Mercy  ! 
IST  PIRATE.  I  should  like  to  second  that. 
CHIEF.  Those  in  favour — ay  !     (They  all  say  "  Ay.") 
Contrary — No  !     (The     GOVERNESS    says    "  No.")    The 
motion  is  carried. 

(One  of  the  Pirates  opens  the  door  of  the  cave.  The 
GOVERNESS  rushes  to  the  CHIEF  and  throtvs 
herself  at  his  feet.  OLIVER  and  JILL  appear  in 
the  nick  of  time.) 

OLIVER.  A  maiden  in  distress  !  I  will  rescue  her. 
(She  looks  up  and  OLIVER  recognises  her)  Oh  !  Carry  on, 
Commodore. 

(The  GOVERNESS  is  lowered  into  the  cave  and  the 

door  is  shut.) 

CHIEF  (to  his  men).  Go,  find  that  black  beetle,  and 
having  found  it,  introduce  it  circumspectly  by  the  back 
door. 

PIRATES.  Ay,  ay,  sir.  [They  go  out. 

OLIVER.  All  the  same,  you  know,  I  jolly  well  should 
like  to  rescue  somebody. 

JILL  (excitedly).  Oo,  rescue  me,  Oliver. 
CHIEF   (solemnly).  Two-toed  Thomas,   Terror  of  the 
Dyaks,  and  Pest  of  the  North  Pacific,  truly  thou  art  a 
well-plucked  one.    Wilt  fight  me  for  the  wench  ?    (He 
puts  an  arm  round  JILL.) 
OLIVER.  I  will. 
CHIEF.  Swords  ? 

OLIVER.    Pistols. 

CHIEF.  At  twenty  paces  ? 

OLIVER.  Across  a  handkerchief. 

CHIEF.  Done  !  (Feeling  in  his  pocketi}  Have  you  got 
a  handkerchief?  I  think  I  must  have  left  mine  on  the 
dressing-table. 


ACT  11]  MAKE-BELIEVE  51 

OLIVER   (bringing  out  his  and  putting  it  hastily   back 

again).      Mine's   rather Jill,    haven't    you    got 

one  ? 

JILL  (feeling').  I  know  I  had  one,  but  I 

CHIEF.  This  is  an  ill  business.  Five-and-thirty  duels 
have  I  fought — and  never  before  been  delayed  for  lack 
of  a  handkerchief. 

JILL.  Ah,  here  it  is.  (She  produces  a  very  small  one 
and  lays  it  on  the  ground.  They  stand  one  each  side  of  it, 
pistols  ready.) 

OLIVER.  Jill,  you  must  give  the  word. 
JILL.  Are  you  ready  ? 

(The  sound  of  a  gong  is  heard.) 

CHIEF.  Listen  !  (The  gong  is  heard  again)  The 
Spanish  Fleet  is  engaged  ! 

JILL.  /  thought  it  was  our  tea  gong. 
CHIEF.  Ah,  perhaps  you're  right. 
OLIVER.  I  say,  we  oughtn't  to  miss  tea.    (Holding  out 
his  hand  to  her)  Come  on,  Jill. 

CHIEF.  But  you'll  come  back  ?     We  shall  always  be 
waiting  here  for  you  whenever  you  want  us. 
JILL.  Yes,  we'll  come  back,  won't  we,  Oliver  ? 
OLIVER.  Oo,  rather. 

(The    whole   population    of  the    Island,    Animals, 
Pirates,  and  Dusky  Maidens,  come  on.     They 
sing  as  they  wave  good-bye  to  the  children  who 
are  making  their  way  to  the  boat.) 
jiLt,(from  the  boat).  Good-bye,  good-bye. 
OLIVER.  Good-bye,  you  chaps. 

JILL  (politely).  And  thank  you  all  for  a  very  pleasant 
afternoon. 

[They  are  all  singing  as  the  boat  pushes  off.  Night 
conies  on  with  tropical  suddenness.  The 
singing  dies  slowly  down. 


ACT   III. — FATHER   CHRISTMAS  AND  THE   HUBBARD 
FAMILY 

SCENE  I. — The  drawing-room  of  the  HUBBARDS  before  Fame 
and  Prosperity  came  to  them.  It  is  simply  furnished 
with  a  deal  table  and  two  cane  chairs. 

MR.   and  MRS.  HUBBARD,  in  faultless  evening   dress,  are 
at   home,  MR.    HUBBARD   reading   a   magazine,   MRS. 
HUBBARD  with  her  hands  in  her  lap.     She  sighs. 
MR.  HUBBARD  (impetuously  throwing  down  his  magazine). 
Dearest,  you  sighed  ? 

MRS.  HUBBARD  (quickly).  No,  no,  Henry.  In  a  luxurious 
and  well-appointed  home  such  as  this,  why  should  I 
sigh  ? 

MR.  HUBBARD.  True,  dear.  Not  only  is  it  artistically 
furnished,  as  you  say,  but  it  is  also  blessed  with  that 
most  precious  of  all  things — (he  lifts  up  the  magazine) — 
a  library. 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Yes,  yes,  Henry,  we  have  much  to  be 
thankful  for. 

MR.  HUBBARD.  We  have  indeed.  But  I  am  selfish. 
Would  you  care  to  read  ?  (lie  tears  out  a  page  of  the 
magazine  and  hands  it  to  her.~) 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Thank  you,  thank  you,  Henry. 

(They  both  sit  in  silence  for  a  little.     She  sighs 

again.) 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Darling,  you  did  sigh.  Tell  me  what 
grieves  you. 

62 


ACT  in]  MAKE-BELIEVE  53 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Little  Isabel.  Her  cough  troubles 
me. 

MR.  HUBBARD  (thoughtfully) .  Isabel  ? 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Yes,  dear,  our  youngest.  Don't  you 
remember,  she  comes  after  Harold  ? 

MR.  HUBBARD  (counting  on  his  fingers).  A,  B,  C,  D,  E, 
F,  G,  H,  I — dear  me,  have  we  got  nine  already  ? 

MRS.  HUBBARD  (imploringly).  Darling,  say  you  don't 
think  it's  too  many. 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Oh  no,  no,  not  at  all,  my  love.  .  .  . 
After  all,  it  isn't  as  if  they  were  real  children. 

MRS.  HUBBARD  (indignantly).  Henry  !  How  can  you 
say  they  are  not  real  ? 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Well,  I  mean  they're  only  the  chil- 
dren we  thought  we'd  like  to  have  if  Father  Christmas 
gave  us  any. 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  They  are  just  as  real  to  me  as  if  they 
were  here  in  the  house.  Ada,  Bertram,  Caroline,  the 
high-spirited  Dennis,  pretty  Elsie  with  the  golden 
ringlets,  dear  little  fair-haired  Frank 

MR.  HUBBARD  (firmly).  Darling  one,  Frank  has  curly 
brown  hair.  It  was  an  understood  thing  that  you 
should  choose  the  girls,  and  /  should  choose  the  boys. 
When  we  decided  to  take — A,  B,  C,  D,  E,  F — a  sixth 
child,  it  was  my  turn  for  a  boy,  and  I  selected 
Frank.  He  has  curly  brown  hair  and  a  fondness  for 
animals. 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  I  daresay  you're  right,  dear.  Of 
course  it  is  a  little  confusing  when  you  never  see  your 
children. 

MR.  HUBBAHD.  Well,  well,  perhaps  some  day  Father 
Christmas  will  give  us  some. 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Why  does  he  neglect  us  so,  Henry  ? 
We  hang  up  our  stockings  every  year,  but  he  never 
seems  to  notice  them.  Even  a  diamond  necklace  or  a 


54  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  m 

few  oranges  or  a  five-shilling  postal  order  would  be 
something. 

MR.  HUBBARD.  It  is  very  strange.  Possibly  the  fact 
that  the  chimney  has  not  been  swept  for  some  years 
may  have  something  to  do  with  it.  Or  he  may  have 
forgotten  our  change  of  address.  I  cannot  help  feeling 
that  if  he  knew  how  we  had  been  left  to  starve  in  this 
way  he  would  be  very  much  annoyed. 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  And  clothes.  I  have  literally  nothing 
but  what  I  am  standing  up  in  —  I  mean  sitting 
down  in. 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Nor  I,  my  love.  But  at  least  it  will  be 
written  of  us  in  the  papers  that  the  Hubbards  perished 
in  faultless  evening  dress.  We  are  a  proud  race,  and 
if  Father  Christmas  deliberately  cuts  us  off  in  this  way, 
let  us  go  down  proudly.  .  .  .  Shall  we  go  on  reading 
or  would  you  like  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room  ? 
Fortunately  these  simple  pleasures  are  left  to  us. 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  I've  finished  this  page. 

MR.  HUBBARD  (tearing  out  one).  Have  another,  my  love. 
(They  read  for  a  little  while,  until  interrupted  by  a 
knock  at  the  door.} 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Some  one  at  the  door  !  Who  could 
it  be  ? 

MR.  HUBBARD  (getting  up).  Just  make  the  room  look 
a  little  more  homey,  dear,  in  case  it's  any  one  im- 
portant. 

(He  goes  out,  having  her  to  alter  the  position  of  the 
chairs  slightly?) 

MRS.  HUBBARD.    Well  ? 

MR.  HUBBARD  (coming  in).  A  letter.     (He  opens  it.) 

MRS.  HUBBARD.    Quick  ! 

MR.  HUBBARD  (whistling  tvith  surprise).  Father  Christ- 
mas !  An  invitation  to  Court  !  (Reading)  "  Father 
Christmas  at  Home,  25th  December.  Jollifications, 


ACT  in]  MAKE-BELIEVE  55 

11.59  P.M."  My  love,  he  has  found  us  at  last !  (They 
embrace  each  other.) 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Henry,  how  gratifying  ! 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Yes.  (Sadly,  after  a  pause)  But  we 
can't  go. 

MRS.  HUBBARD  (sadly).  No,  I  have  no  clothes. 

MR.  HUBBARD.    Nor  I. 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  How  can  I  possibly  go  without  a 
diamond  necklace  ?  None  of  the  Montmorency-Smy  the 
women  has  ever  been  to  Court  without  a  diamond 
necklace. 

MR.  HUBBARD.  The  Hubbards  are  a  proud  race.  No 
male  Hubbard  would  dream  of  appearing  at  Court 
without  a  gentleman's  gold  Albert  watch-chain.  .  .  . 
Besides,  there  is  another  thing.  There  will  be  many 
footmen  at  Father  Christmas 's  Court,  who  will  doubt- 
less require  coppers  pressed  into  their  palms.  My 
honour  would  be  seriously  affected,  were  I  compelled 
to  whisper  to  them  that  I  had  no  coppers. 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  It  is  very  unfortunate.  Father 
Christmas  may  have  hundreds  of  presents  waiting  for  us. 

MR.  HUBBARD.  True.  But  how  would  it  be  to  hang 
up  our  stockings  again  this  evening — now  that  we  know 
he  knows  we  are  here  ?  I  would  suggest  tied  on  to  the 
door-knocker,  to  save  him  the  trouble  of  coming  down 
the  chimney. 

MRS.  HUBBARD  (excitedly).  Henry,  I  wonder  !  But  of 
course  we  will. 

(They  begin  to  take  off- — the  one  a  sock,  the  other 
a  stocking.) 

MR.  HUBBARD.  I  almost  wish  now  that  my  last  suit  had 
been  a  knickerbocker  one.  However,  we  must  do  what 
we  can  with  a  sock. 

MRS.  HUBBARD  (holding  up  her  stocking  and  looking  at  it 
a  little  anxiously).  I  hope  Father  Christmas  won't  give 


56  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  in 

me  a  bicycle.  A  stocking  never  sets  so  well  after  it  has 
had  a  bicycle  in  it. 

MR.  HUBBARD  (taking  it  from  her).  Now,  dear,  I  will  go 
down  and  put  them  in  position.  Let  us  hope  that 
fortune  will  be  kind  to  us. 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Let  us  hope  so,  darling.     And  quickly. 

For  (picking  up  her  page  of  the  magazine)  it  is  a  trifle  cold. 

[He  goes  out  and  she  is  left  reading. 


SCENE  II. — Outside  the  house  the  snow  lies  deep.  The  stock- 
ing and  sock  are  tied  on  to  the  door-knocker.  There  is 
a  light  in  the  window . 

A  party  of  carol- singers,  with  la?iterns,  come  by  and  halt 
in  the  snow  outside  the  house. 

PETER  ABLEWAYS.  Friends,  are  we  all  assembled  ? 

JONAS  HUMPHREY.  Ay,  ay,  Peter  Ableways,  assembled 
and  met  together  in  a  congregation,  for  the  purpose 
of  lifting  up  our  voices  in  joyous  thanksgiving,  videlicet 
the  singing  of  a  carol  or  other  wintry  melody. 

JENNIFER  LING.  Keep  your  breath  for  your  song, 
Master  Humphrey.  That  last  "Alleluia"  of  yours  was 
a  poor  windy  thing,  lacking  grievously  in  substance. 

JONAS  (sadly).  It  is  so.  I  never  made  much  of  an 
Alleluia.  It  is  not  in  my  nature  somehow.  'Tis  a  vain 
boastful  thing  an  Alleluia. 

MARTHA  PORRITT.  Are  we  to  begin  soon,  Master 
Ableways  ?  My  feet  are  cold. 

JONAS.  What  matter  the  feet,  Martha  Porritt,  if  the 
heart  be  warm  with  loving-kindness  and  seasonable 
emotions  ? 

MARTHA.  Well,  nothing  of  me  will  be  warm  soon. 

JENNIFER.  Ay,  let's  begin,  Peter  Ableways,  while 
we  carry  the  tune  in  our  heads  It  is  ill  searching  for 
the  notes  in  the  middle  of  the  carol,  as  some  singers  do. 


ACT  in]  MAKE-BELIEVE  57 

PETER.  Well  spoken,  Mistress  Jennifer.  Now  listen 
all,  while  I  unfold  the  nature  of  the  entertainment. 
Item — A  carol  or  birth  song  to  draw  the  attention  of  all 
folk  to  the  company  here  assembled  and  the  occasion 
celebrated.  Item — Applause  and  the  clapping  of  hands. 
Item — A  carol  or  song  of  thanksgiving.  Item — A  col- 
lection. 

JONAS.  An  entertainment  well  devised,  Master  Able- 
ways,  sobeit  the  words  of  the  second  song  remain  with 
me  after  I  am  delivered  of  the  first. 

MARTHA.  Are  we  to  begin  soon,  Master  Ableways  ? 
My  feet  are  cold. 

PETER.  Are  we  all  ready,  friends  ?  I  will  say  one — 
two — three — and  at  "  three  "  I  pray  you  all  to  give  it 
off  in  a  hearty  manner  from  the  chest.  One — two 

JONAS.  Hold,  hold,  Master  Ableways  !  Does  it  begin 
— No,  that's  the  other  one.  (JENNIFER  whispers  the  first 
line  to  him)  Ay,  ay — I  have  it  now — and  bursting  to 
get  out  of  me.  Proceed,  Peter  Ableways. 

PETER.  One — two — three (They  carol.) 

PETER.  Well  sung,  all. 

HUMPHREY.  The  applause  followed,  good  Master 
Peter,  as  ordained.  Moreover,  I  have  the  tune  of  the 
second  song  ready  within  me.  Likewise  a  la-la-la  or 
two  to  replace  such  words  as  I  have  forgotten. 

MARTHA.  Don't  forget  the  collection,  Master  Able- 
ways. 

PETER.  Ay,  the  collection.  (He  takes  off"  Ms  hat  and 
places  it  on  the  ground.) 

HUMPHREY.  Nay,  not  so  fast,  Master  Peter.  It  would 
be  ill  if  the  good  folk  thought  that  our  success  this  night 
were  to  be  estimated  by  an  empty  hat.  Place  some  of 
our  money  in  it,  Master  Ableways.  Where  money  is, 
money  will  come. 

JENNIFER.  Ay,  it  makes  a  pleasing  clink. 


58  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  in 

PETEU.  True,  Mistress  Jennifer.  Master  Humphrey 
speaks  true.  (He  pours  some  coppers  from  his  pockets 
into  his  hat.) 

MARTHA.  Are  we  to  go  on,  Master  Ableways  ?  My 
feet  are  cold. 

PETER  (shaking  the  hat).  So,  a  warming  noise. 

HUMPHREY.  To  it  again,  gentles. 

PETER.  Are  all  ready  ?  One — two — three  !  (They 
carol.) 

PETER.  Well  sung,  all. 

HUMPHREY.  Have  you  the  hat,  Master  Peter  ? 

PETER  (picking  it  up).  Ay,  friend,  all  is  ready. 

(The  door  opens  and  MR.  HUBBARD  appears  at  the 
entrance.} 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Good  evening,  friends. 

PETER.  Good  evening,  sir.     (He  holds  out  the  hat.} 

MR.  HUBBARD  (looking  at  if).  What  is  this  ?  (PETER 
shakes  if)  Aha  !  Money  ! 

PETER.  Remember  the  carol  singers,  sir. 

MR.  HUBBARD  (helping  himself).  My  dear  friends,  I  will 
always  remember  you.  This  is  most  generous.  I  shall 
never  forget  your  kindness.  This  is  most  unexpected. 

But  not  the  less  welcome,  not  the  less I  think 

there's  a  ha'penny  down  there  that  I  missed — thank 
you.  As  I  was  saying,  unexpected  but  welcome.  I 
thank  you  heartily.  Good  evening,  friends. 

[He  goes  in  and  shuts  the  door. 

PETER  (who  has  been  too  surprised  to  do  anything  but 
keep  his  mouth  open).  Well  !  .  .  .  Well  !  .  .  .  Well, 
friends,  let  us  to  the  next  house.  We  have  got  all  that 
we  can  get  here. 

[They  trail  off  silently. 

MARTHA  (as  they  go  off").  Master  Ableways  1 

PETER.  Ay,  lass  ! 

MARTHA.  My  feet  aren't  so  cold  now. 


ACT  in]  MAKE-BELIEVE  59 

(But  this  is  to  be  an  exciting  night.  As  soon  as  they 
are  gone,  a  Burglar  and  a  Burglaress  steal  into 
view.) 

BILL.  Wotcher  get,  Liz  ?   (She  holds  up  a  gold  watch  and 
chain.  He  nods  and  holds  up  a  diamond  necklace)  'Ow's  that  ? 
LIZ  (starting  suddenly).  H'st ! 
BILL  (in  a  whisper).  What  is  it  ? 
LIZ.  Copper  ! 
BILL  (desperately).  'Ere,  quick,  get  rid  of  these.     'Ide 

'em  in  the  snow,  or 

LIZ.  Bill  !  (He  turns  round)  Look  !  (She  points  to  the 
slocking  and  sock  hanging  up)  We  can  come  back  for 
'em  as  soon  as  'e's  gone. 

(BILL  looks  at  them,  and  back  at  her,  and  grins.  He 
drops  the  necklace  into  one  and  the  watch  into 
the  other.  As  the  POLICEMAN  approaches  they 
strike  up,  "  While  shepherds  watched  their  jlock 
by  night,"  with  an  air  of  great  enthusiasm.} 
POLICEMAN.  Now  then,  move  along  there. 

(They  move  along.  The  POLICEMAN  Jlashes  his  light 
on  the  door  to  see  that  all  is  well.  The  stocking 
and  sock  are  revealed.  lie  beams  sentimentally 
at  them.) 

SCENE  III. — We  are  inside  the  house  again.  MRS.  HUBBARD 
is  still  reading  a  page  of  the  magazine.  In  dashes 
MR.  IIUBBARD  with  the  sock  and  stocking. 

MR.  HUBBARD.  My  darling,  what  do  you  think  ? 
Father  Christmas  has  sent  you  a  little  present.  (He 
hands  her  the  stocking.) 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Henry  !     Has  he  sent  you  one  too  ? 

MR.  HUBBARD  (holding  up  his  sock).     Observe  ! 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  How  sweet  of  him  !  I  wonder  what 
mine  is.  What  is  yours,  darling  ? 


50  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  HI 

MR.  HUBBARD.  I  haven't  looked  yet,  my  love.  Perhaps 
just  a  few  nuts  or  something  of  that  sort,  with  a  card 
attached  saying,  "  To  wish  you  the  old,  old  wish."  We 
must  try  not  to  be  disappointed,  whatever  it  is, 
darling. 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Of  course,  Henry.  After  all,  it  is  the 
kindly  thought  which  really  matters. 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Certainly.     All  the  same,  I  hope 

Will  you  look  in  yours,  dear,  first,  or  shall  I  ? 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  I  think  I  should  like  to,  darling. 
(Feeling  if)  It  feels  so  exciting.  (She  brings  out  a  diamond 
necklace)  Henry  ! 

MR.  HUBBARD.  My  love  !  (They  embrace}  Now  you 
will  be  able  to  go  to  Court.  You  must  say  that  your 
husband  is  unfortunately  in  bed  with  a  bad  cold.  You 
can  tell  me  all  about  it  when  you  come  home.  I  shall 

be  able  to  amuse  myself  with (He  is  feeling  in 

his  sock  while  talking,  and  now  brings  out  the  match  and 
chain.) 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Henry  !     My  love  ! 

MR.  HUBBARD.  A  gentleman's  gold  hunter  and  Albert 
watch-chain.  My  darling  ! 

(They  put  down   their  presents   on   the   table   and 
embrace  each  other  again. ,) 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Let's  put  them  on  at  once,  Henry, 
and  see  how  they  suit  us. 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Allow  me,  my  love.  (He  fastens  her 
necklace.) 

MRS.  HUBBARD  (happily).  Now  I  feel  really  dressed 
again  !  Oh,  I  wish  we  had  a  looking-glass. 

MR.  HUBBARD  (opening  his  gold  watch).  Try  in  here,  my 
darling. 

MRS.  HUBBARD  (surveying  herself).  How  perfectly 
sweet  !  .  .  .  Now  let  me  put  your  watch-chain  on  for 
you,  dear.  (She  arranges  it  for  him — HENRY  very  proud.) 


ACT  m]  MAKE-BELIEVE  61 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Does  it  suit  me,  darling  ? 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  You  look  fascinating,  Henry  ! 

(They  strut  about  the  room  with  an  air.) 

MR.  HUBBARD  (taking  out  his  watch  and  looking  at  it 
ostentatiously').  Well,  well,  we  ought  to  be  starting.  My 
watch  makes  it  11.58.  (He  holds  it  to  her  ear)  Hasn't  it 
got  a  sweet  tick  ? 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Sweet !    But  starting  where,  Henry  ? 

Do  you  mean  we  can  really But  you  haven't  any 

money. 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Money  ?  (Taking  out  a  handful) 
Heaps  of  it. 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Father  Christmas  ? 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Undoubtedly,  my  love.  Brought 
round  to  the  front  door  just  now  by  some  of  his 
messengers.  By  the  way,  dear — (indicating  the  sock  and 
stocking) — hadn't  we  better  put  these  on  before  we 
start  ? 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Of  course.     How  silly  of  me  ! 

(They  sit  down  and  put  them  on.) 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Really  this  is  a  very  handsome  watch- 
chain. 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  It  becomes  you  admirably,  Henry. 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Thank  you,  dear.  There's  just  one 
little  point.  Father  Christmas  is  sometimes  rather  shy 
about  acknowledging  the  presents  he  gives.  He  hates 
being  thanked.  If,  therefore,  he  makes  any  comment 
on  your  magnificent  necklace  or  my  handsome  watch- 
chain,  we  must  say  that  they  have  been  in  the  family 
for  some  years. 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Of  course,  dear.     (They  get  tip.) 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Well,  now  we're  ready. 

MRS.  HUBHARD.  Darling  one,  don't  you  think  we  might 
bring  the  children  ? 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Of  course,  dear  !     How  forgetful  of 


62  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  in 

me  !  .  .  .  Children — 'shun  !  (Listen  !  Their  heels  click 
as  they  come  to  attention)  Number !  (Their  voices — 
alternate  boy  and  girl,  one  to  nine — are  heard)  Right  turn  ! 
MRS.  HUBBARD.  Darling  one,  I  almost  seem  to  hear 
them  ! 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Are  you  ready,  my  love  ? 
MRS.  HUBBARD.  Yes,  Henry. 
MR.  HUBBARD.  Quick  march  ! 

(The  children  are  heard  tramping  off'.  Very 
proudly  MR.  and  MRS.  HUBBARD  bring  up  the 
rear.) 


SCENE  IV. — The  Court  of  FATHER  CHRISTMAS.  Shall  we 
describe  it  ?  No.  But  there  is  everything  there  which 
any  reasonable  person  could  want,  from  ices  to  catapults. 
And  the  decorations,  done  in  candy  so  that  you  can 
break  off"  a  piece  whenever  you  are  hungry,  are 
superb. 

IST  USHER  (from  the  back).  Father  Christmas  ! 

SEVERAL  USHERS  (from  the  front).  Father  Christmas  ! 
(He  comes  in.) 

FATHER  CHRISTMAS  (genially).  Good  evening,  every- 
body. 

/  ought  to  have  said  that  there  are  already  some  hundreds 
of  people  there,  though  how  some  of  them  got  invitations — 
but,  after  all,  that  is  not  our  business.  Wishing  to  put  them 
quite  at  their  ease,  FATHER  CHRISTMAS,  who  has  a  very 
creditable  baritone,  gives  them  a  song.  After  the  applause 
which  follows  it,  he  retires  to  the  throne  at  the  back, 
and  awaits  his  more  important  guests.  The  USHERS  take 
up  their  places,  one  at  the  entrance,  one  close  to  the  throne. 

IST  USHER.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Henry  Hubbard  !  (They 
come  in.) 


ACT  m]  MAKE-BELIEVE  63 

MR.  HUBBARD  (pressing  twopence  into  his  palni).  Thank 
you,  my  man,  thank  you. 

SND  USHER.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Henry  Hubbard. 

MR.  HUBBARD  (handing  out  another  twopence).  Not  at 
all,  my  man,  not  at  all. 

(MRS.  HUBBARD  curtsies  and  MR.  HUBBARD  bows  to 

FATHER  CHRISTMAS.) 

FATHER  CHRISTMAS.  I  am  delighted  to  welcome  you 
to  my  Court.  How  are  you  both  ? 

MR.  UUBBARD.  Very  well,  thank  you,  sir.  My  wife 
has  a  slight  cold  in  one  foot,  owing  to 

MRS.  HUBBARD  (hastily}.  A  touch  of  gout,  sir,  inherited 
from  my  ancestors,  the  Montmorency-Smythes. 

FATHER  CHRISTMAS.  Dear  me,  it  won't  prevent  you 
dancing,  I  hope  ? 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Oh  no,  sir. 

FATHER  CHRISTMAS.  That's  right.  We  shall  have  a 
few  more  friends  coming  in  soon.  You  have  been  giving 
each  other  presents  already,  I  see.  I  congratulate  you, 
madam,  on  your  husband's  taste. 

MRS.  HUBBARD  (touching  her  necklace).  Oh  no,  this 
is  a  very  old  heirloom  of  the  Montmorency-Smythe 
family . 

MR.  HUBBARD.  An  ancestress  of  Mrs.  Hubbard's — a 
lady-in-waiting  at  the  Tottenham  Court — at  the  Tudor 
Court — was  fortunate  enough  to  catch  the  eye  of — er 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Elizabeth. 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Queen  Elizabeth,  and — er 

FATHER  CHRISTMAS.  I  see.  You  are  lucky,  madam,  to 
have  such  beautiful  jewels.  (Turning  to  MR.  HUBBARD) 
And  this  delightful  gold  Albert  watch-chain 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Presented  to  an  ancestor  of  mine,  Sir 
Humphrey  de  Hubbard,  at  the  battle  of — er — 

MRS.  HUBBARD.    AgillCOUl't. 

MR.  HUBBARD.  As  you  say,  dear,  Agincourt.    By  King 


64  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  in 

Richard  the — I  should  say  William  the — well,  by  the 
King. 

FATHER  CHRISTMAS.  How  very  interesting. 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Yes.  My  ancestor  clove  a  scurvy 
knave  from  the  chaps  to  the  chine.  I  don't  quite  know 
how  you  do  that,  but  I  gather  that  he  inflicted  some 
sort  of  a  scratch  upon  his  adversary,  and  the  King 
rewarded  him  with  this  handsome  watch-chain. 

USHERS  (announcing).  Mr.  Robinson  Crusoe !  (He 
comes  in.") 

FATHER  CHRISTMAS.    How  do  yOU  do  ? 

CRUSOE  (bowing).  I'm  a  little  late,  I'm  afraid,  sir.  My 
raft  was  delayed  by  adverse  gales. 

(FATHER  CHRISTMAS  introduces  him  to  the  HUBBARDS, 
who    inform    him    that    the    weather    is    very 
seasonable.") 
USHERS.  Miss  Riding  Hood  !    (She  comes  m.) 

FATHER  CHRISTMAS.    How  do  yOU  do  ? 

RIDING  HOOD  (curtseying) .  I  hope  I  am  in  time,  sir. 
I  had  to  look  in  on  my  grandmother  on  the  way  here. 
(FATHER  CHRISTMAS  makes  the  necessary  introductions.} 

MRS.  HUBBARD  (to  CRUSOE).  Do  come  and  see  me,  Mr. 
Crusoe.  Any  Friday.  I  should  like  your  advice  about 
my  parrot.  He's  moulting  in  all  the  wrong  places. 

MR.    HUBBARD   (to   RED   RIDING   HOOD).    I   don't   know  if 

you're  interested  in  wolves  at  all,  Miss  Hood.  I  heard 
a  very  good  story  about  one  the  other  day.  (He  begins 
to  tell  it,  but  she  has  hurried  away  before  he  can  remember 
whether  it  was  Thursday  or  Friday?) 

USHERS.  Baron  Bluebeard  !     (lie  comes  in.") 

FATHER  CHRISTMAS.    How  do  yOU  do  ? 

BLUEBEARD  (bowing).  I  trust  you  have  not  been 
waiting  for  me,  sir.  I  had  a  slight  argument  with  my 
wife  before  starting,  which  delayed  me  somewhat. 

(FATHER  CHRISTMAS  forgives  him.) 


ACT  in]  MAKE-BELIEVE  65 

USHERS.  Princess  Goldilocks  ! 

FATHER  CHRISTMAS.    How  do  yOU  do  ? 

GOLDILOCKS  (curtseying) .  I  brought  the  youngest  bear 
with  me — do  you  mind  ?  (She  introduces  the  youngest 
bear  to  FATHER  CHRISTMAS  and  the  other  guests')  Say,  how 
do  you  do,  darling  ?  (To  an  USHER)  Will  you  give  him  a 
little  porridge,  please,  and  if  you  have  got  a  nice  bed 
where  he  could  rest  a  little  afterwards — he  gets  tired 
so  quickly. 

USHER.  Certainly,  your  Royal  Highness. 

(Music  begins.) 

GOLDILOCKS   (to   FATHER   CHRISTMAS).    Are   W6   going   to 

dance  ?     How  lovely  ! 

FATHER  CHRISTMAS  (to  the  HUBBARDS).  You  will  dance, 
won't  you  ? 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  I  think  not  just  at  first,  thank  you. 

GOLDILOCKS  (to  CRUSOE).  Come  along  ! 

CRUSOE.  I  am  a  little  out  of  practice — er — but  if  you 
don't  mind — er (He  comes?) 

BLUEBEARD  (to  RIDING  HOOD).  May  I  have  the  pleasure  ? 

MRS.  HUBBARD  (to  RIDING  HOOD).  Be  careful,  dear ;  he 
has  a  very  bad  reputation. 

RIDING  HOOD  (to  BLUEBEARD).  You  don't  eat  people, 
do  you  ? 

BLUEBEARD  (pained  by  this  injustice).  Never  ! 

RIDING  HOOD.  Oh  then,  I  don't  mind.  But  I  do  hate 
being  eaten. 

Now  we  can't  possibly  describe  the  whole  dance  to  you, 
for  171  every  corner  of  the  big  ballroom  couples  were 
revolving  and  sliding,  and  making  small  talk  with  each 
other.  So  we  will  just  take  two  specimen  conversations. 

CRUSOE  (nervous,  poor  man).  Princess  Goldilocks,  may 
I  speak  to  you  on  a  matter  of  some  importance  to  me  ? 
GOLDILOCKS.  I  wish  you  would. 


66  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  in 

CRUSOE  (looking  across  at  BLUEBEARD  and  RED  RIDING 
HOOD,  who  are  revolving  close  by).  Alone. 

GOLDILOCKS  (to  BLUEBEARD).  Do  you  mind  ?  You  can 
have  your  turn  afterwards. 

BLUEBEARD  (to  RIDING  HOOD).    Shall  W6  adjourn  to  the 

Buffet  ? 

RIDING  HOOD.  Oh,  do  let's.  [They  adjourn. 

CRUSOE  (bravely").  Princess,  I  am  a  lonely  man. 

GOLDILOCKS  (encouragingly).  Yes,  Robinson  ? 

CRUSOE.  I  am  not  much  of  a  one  for  society,  and  I 
don't  quite  know  how  to  put  these  things,  but — er — 
if  you  would  like  to  share  my  island,  I — I  should  so 
love  to  have  you  there. 

GOLDILOCKS.  Oh,  Robbie  ! 

CRUSOE  (warming  to  if).  I  have  a  very  comfortable 
house,  and  a  man-servant,  and  an  excellent  view  from 
the  south  windows,  and  several  thousands  of  acres  of 
good  rough-shooting,  and — oh,  do  say  you'll  come  ! 

GOLDILOCKS.  May  I  bring  my  bears  with  me  ? 

CRUSOE.  Of  course  !  I  ought  to  have  said  that.  I 
have  a  great  fondness  for  animals. 

GOLDILOCKS.  How  sweet  of  you  !  But  perhaps  I  ought 
to  warn  you  that  we  all  like  porridge.  Have  you 

CRUSOE.  I  have  a  hundred  acres  of  oats. 

GOLDILOCKS.  Then,  Robinson,  I  am  yours.  {They 
embrace)  There  !  Now  tell  me — did  you  make  all  your 
clothes  yourself  ? 

CRUSOE  (proudly).  All  of  them. 

GOLDILOCKS  (going  off  with  hint).  How  wonderful  of 
you  !  Really  you  hardly  seem  to  want  a  wife. 

[They  go  out.     Now  it  is  the  other  couple's  turn. 

Enter,  then,  BLUEBEARD  and  RIDING  HOOD 

BLUEBEARD.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  tell  you  at  once,  Miss 
Riding  Hood,  that  I  have  been  married  before. 


ACT  in]  MAKE-BELIEVE  67 

RIDING  HOOD.    YeS  ? 

BLUEBEARD.  My  last  wife  unfortunately  died  just 
before  I  started  out  here  this  evening. 

RIDINO  HOOD  (calmly).  Did  you  kill  her  ? 

BLUEBEARD  (taken  aback).  I — I — I 

RIDING  HOOD.  Are  you  quite  a  nice  man,  Bluebeard  ? 

BLUEBEARD.  W-what  do  you  mean  ?  I  am  a  very 
rich  man.  If  you  will  marry  me,  you  will  live  in  a 
wonderful  castle,  full  of  everything  that  you  want. 

RIDING  HOOD.  That  will  be  rather  jolly. 

BLUEBEARD  (dramatically}.  But  there  is  one  room  into 
which  you  must  never  go.  (Holding  up  a  key)  Here  is 
the  key  of  it.  (He  offers  it  to  her.) 

RIDING  HOOD  (indifferently).  But  if  I'm  never  to  go 
into  it,  I  shan't  want  the  key. 

BLUEBEARD  (upset).  You — you  must  have  the  key. 

RIDING  HOOD.    Why  ? 

BLUEBEARD.  The— the  others  all  had  it. 
RIDING  HOOD  (coldly).  Bluebeard,  you  aren't  going  to 
talk  about  your  other  wives  all  the  time,  are  you  ? 

BLUEBEARD.    N — no. 

RIDING  HOOD.  Then  don't  be  silly.  And  take  this 
key,  and  go  and  tidy  up  that  ridiculous  room  of  yours, 
and  when  it's  nice  and  clean,  and  when  you've  shaved 
off  that  absurd  beard,  perhaps  I'll  marry  you. 

BLUEBEARD  (furiously  drawing  his  sword}.  Madam  ! 

RIDING  HOOD.  Don't  do  it  here.  You'll  want  some 
hot  water. 

BLUEBEARD  (trying  to  put  his  sword  back).  This  is  too 
much,  this  is 

RIDING  HOOD.  You're  putting  it  in  the  wrong  way 
round. 

BLUEBEARD  (stiffly).  Thank  you.  (He  manages  to  get 
it  in.) 

RIDING  HOOD.  Well,  do  YOU  want  to  marry  me  ? 


68  MAKE-BELIEVE  [ACT  in 

BLUEBEARD.    YeS  ! 
RIDING  HOOD.    Sure  ? 

BLUEBEARD  (admiringly).  More  than  ever.  You're 
the  first  woman  I've  met  who  hasn't  been  afraid  of  me. 
RIDING  HOOD  (surprised).  Are  you  very  alarming  ? 
Wolves  frighten  me  sometimes,  but  not  just  silly  men. 
.  .  .  (Giving  him  her  hand)  All  right  then.  But  you'll 
do  what  I  said  ? 

BLUEBEARD.  Beloved  one,  I  will  do  anything  for  you. 
(CRUSOE  and  GOLDILOCKS  come  back.  Probably  it 
mill  occur  to  the  four  of  them  to  sing  a  song 
indicative  of  the  happy  family  life  awaiting 
them.  On  the  other  hand  they  may  prefer  to 
dance.  .  .  .) 

But  enough  of  this.  Let  us  get  on  to  the  great  event 
of  the  evening.  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  are  you  all 
assembled  ?  Then  silence,  please,  for  FATHER  CHRISTMAS. 

FATHER  CHRISTMAS.  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  it  gives 
me  great  pleasure  to  see  you  here  at  my  Court  this 
evening  ;  and  in  particular  my  friends  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hubbard,  of  whom  I  have  been  too  long  neglectful. 
However,  I  hope  to  make  up  for  it  to-night.  (To  an 
USHER)  Disclose  the  Christmas  Tree  ! 

The  Christmas  Tree  is  disclosed,  and— what  do  you 
think  ?  Children  disguised  as  crackers  are  hanging  from 
every  branch  !  Well,  I  never  ! 

FATHER  CHRISTMAS  (quite  calmly").  Distribute  the 
presents  ! 

(An  USHER  takes  down  the  children  one  by  one  and 
places  them  in  a  row,  reading  from  the  labels 
on  them,  "  MRS.  HUBBARD,  MR.  HUBBARD  " 
alternately.") 

USHER  (handing  list  to  MR.  HUBBARD).  Here  is  the 
nominal  roll,  sir. 


ACT  in]  MAKE-BELIEVE  69 

MR.  HUBBARD  (looking  at  it  in  amazement).  What's  this  ? 
(MRS.  HUBBARD  looks  over  his  shoulder)  Ada,  Bertram, 
Caroline — My  darling  one  ! 

MRS.  HUBBARD.  Henry  !  Our  children  at  last !  Oh, 
are  they  all — all  there  ? 

MR.  HUBBARD.  We'll  soon  see,  dear.     Ada  ! 

ADA  (springing  to  attention).  Father  !  (She  stands  at 
ease.) 

MR.  HUBBARD.  Bertram  !  .  .  .  (And  so  on  up  to  ELSIE) 
.  .  .  Frank  ! 

FRANK.  Father  ! 

MR.  HUBBARD.  There  you  are,  darling,  I  told  you  he 
had  curly  brown  hair.  .  .  .  Gwendoline  !  (And  so  on.) 

MRS.  HUBBARD  (to  FATHER  CHRISTMAS).    Oh   thank    you 

so  much.     It  is  sweet  of  you. 

MR.  HUBBARD  (to  FATHER  CHRISTMAS).  We  are  slightly 
overcome.  Do  you  mind  if  we  just  dance  it  off.  (FATHER 
CHRISTMAS  nods  genially.)  Come  on,  children  ! 

(He  holds  out  his  hands,  and  he  and  his  wife  and 
the  children  dance  round  in  a  ring  singing, 
"  Here  we  go  round  the  Christmas  Tree,  all  on 
a  Christmas  evening."  .  .  . 

And  then But  at  this  moment  JAMES  and  ROSEMARY 

and  the  HUBBARD  children  stopped  thinking,  so  of  course 
the  play  came  to  an  end.  And  if  there  were  one  or  two  bits 
in  it  which  the  children  didn't  quite  understand,  that  was 
JAMES'S  fault.  He  never  ought  to  have  been  thinking  at 
all,  really. 


MR.    PIM    PASSES    BY 

A  COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS 


71 


CHARACTERS 

GEORGE  MARDEN,  J.P. 
OLIVIA  (his  wife). 
DINAH  (his  niece). 
LADY  MARDEN  (his  aunt). 
BRIAN  STRANGE. 
CARRAWAY  PIM. 
ANNE. 


THE  first  performance  of  this  play  in  London  took  place 
at  the  New  Theatre  on  January  5, 1920,  with  the  follow- 
ing cast : 

-  BEN  WEBSTER. 

-  IRENE  VANBRUGII. 

-  GEORGETTE  COHAN. 

-  ETHEL  GRIFFIES. 

-  LESLIE  HOWARD. 


George  Marden 
Olivia  - 
Dinah  - 
Lady  Marden 
Brian  Strange 
Carraway  Pirn 
Anne    - 


DION  BOUCICAULT. 
ETHEL  WELLESLEY. 


72 


MR.    PIM   PASSES   BY 

ACT  I 

The  morning-room  at  Marden  House  (Buckinghamshire) 
decided  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago  that  it  was  all 
right,  and  has  not  bothered  about  itself  since.  Visitors 
to  the  house  have  called  the  result  such  different  adjec- 
tives as  "  mellow,"  "  old-fashioned,"  "  charming  " — 
even  "  baronial  "  and  "  antique  "  ;  but  nobody  ever 
said  it  was  "  exciting."  Sometimes  OLIVIA  wants  it  to 
be  more  exciting,  and  last  week  she  let  herself  go  over 
some  new  curtains.  At  present  they  are  folded  up  and 
waiting  for  her  ;  she  still  has  the  rings  to  put  on.  It 
is  obvious  that  the  curtains  alone  will  overdo  the  excite- 
ment ;  they  will  have  to  be  harmonised  with  a  new 
carpet  and  cushions.  OLIVIA  has  her  eye  on  just  the 
things,  but  one  has  to  go  carefully  with  GEORGE.  What 
was  good  enough  for  his  great-great-grandfather  is 
good  enough  for  him.  However,  we  can  trust  OLIVIA 
to  see  him  through  it,  although  it  may  take  time. 

There  are  two  ways  of  coming  into  the  room  ;  by  the 
open  windows  leading  from  the  terrace  or  by  the 
door.  On  this  pleasant  July  morning  MR.  PIM  chooses 
the  latter  way — or  rather  ANNE  chooses  it  for  him  ; 
and  old  MR.  PIM,  wistful,  kindly,  gentle,  little  MR. 
PIM,  living  in  some  world  of  his  own  whither 
we  cannot  follow,  ambles  after  her. 
73 


74  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  i 

ANNE.  I'll  tell  Mr.  Marden  you're  here,  sir.  Mr. 
Pirn,  isn't  it  ? 

PIM  (coming  back  to  this  world}.  Yes — er — Mr.  Carraway 
Pirn.  He  doesn't  know  me,  you  understand,  but  if  he 

could  just  see  me  for  a  moment — er (He  fumbles  in 

his  pockets)  I  gave  you  that  letter  ? 

ANNE.  Yes,  sir,  I'll  give  it  to  him. 

PIM  (bringing  out  a  letter  which  is  not  the  one  he  mas 
looking  for,  but  which  reminds  him  of  something  else  he  has 
forgotten).  Dear  me  ! 

ANNE.  Yes,  sir  ? 

PIM.  I  ought  to  have  sent  a  telegram,  but  I  can  do  it 
on  my  way  back.  You  have  a  telegraph  office  in  the 
village  ? 

ANNE.  Oh  yes,  sir.  If  you  turn  to  the  left  when  you 
get  outside  the  gates,  it  isn't  more  than  a  hundred  yards 
down  the  hill. 

PIM.  Thank  you,  thank  you.  Very  stupid  of  me  to 
have  forgotten. 

[ANNE  goes  out. 

(MR.  PIM  wanders  about  the  room  humming  to  himself, 
and  looking  vaguely  at  the  pictures.  He  has 
his  back  to  the  door  as  DINAH  comes  in.  She  is 
nineteen,  very  pretty,  very  happy,  and  full  of 
boyish  high  spirits  and  conversation.) 

DINAH.  Hullo  ! 

PIM  (turning  round).  Ah,  good  morning,  Mrs.  Marden. 
You  must  forgive  my — er 

DINAH.  Oh  I  say,  I'm  not  Mrs.  Marden.  I'm 
Dinah. 

PIM  (with  a  bow).  Then  I  will  say,  Good  morning,  Miss 
Diana. 

DINAH  (reproachfully}.  Now,  look  here,  if  you  and  I 
are  going  to  be  friends  you  mustn't  do  that.  Dinah, 
not  Diana.  Do  remember  it,  there's  a  good  man, 


ACT  ij  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  75 

because  I  get  so  tired  of  correcting  people.     Have  you 
come  to  stay  with  us  ? 

PIM.  Well  no,  Miss — er — Dinah. 

DINAH  (nodding).  That's  right.  I  can  see  I  shan't 
have  to  speak  to  you  again.  Now  tell  me  your 
name,  and  I  bet  you  I  get  it  right  first  time.  And 
do  sit  down. 

PIM  (sitting  down).  Thank  you.  My  name  is — er — 
Pirn,  Carraway  Pirn 

DINAH.  Pirn,  that's  easy. 

PIM.  And  I  have  a  letter  of  introduction  to  your 
father 

DINAH.  Oh  no ;  now  you're  going  wrong  again,  Mr. 
Pirn.  George  isn't  my  father  ;  he's  my  uncle.  Uncle 
George — he  doesn't  like  me  calling  him  George.  Olivia 
doesn't  mind — I  mean  she  doesn't  mind  being  called 
Olivia,  but  George  is  rather  touchy.  You  see,  he's 
been  my  guardian  since  I  was  about  two,  and  then  about 
five  years  ago  he  married  a  widow  called  Mrs.  Telworthy 
— that's  Olivia— so  she  became  my  Aunt  Olivia,  only 
she  lets  me  drop  the  Aunt.  Got  that  ? 

PIM  (a  little  alarmed).  I — I  think  so,  Miss  Marden. 

DINAH  (admiringly).  I  say,  you  are  quick,  Mr.  Pirn. 
Well,  if  you  take  my  advice,  when  you've  finished  your 
business  with  George,  you  will  hang  about  a  bit  and  see 
if  you  can't  see  Olivia.  She's  simply  devastating.  I 
don't  wonder  George  fell  in  love  with  her. 

PIM.  It's  only  the  merest  matter  of  business — just 
a  few  minutes  with  your  uncle — I'm  afraid  I  shall 
hardly — 

DINAH.  Well,  you  must  please  yourself,  Mr.  Pirn. 
I'm  just  giving  you  a  friendly  word  of  advice.  Naturally, 
I  was  awfully  glad  to  get  such  a  magnificent  aunt, 
because,  of  course,  marriage  is  rather  a  toss  up,  isn't  it, 
and  George  might  have  gone  off  with  anybody.  It's 


76  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  i 

different  on  the  stage,  where  guardians  always  marry 
their  wards,  but  George  couldn't  marry  me  because  I'm 
his  niece.  Mind  you,  I  don't  say  that  I  should  have 
had  him,  because  between  ourselves  he's  a  little  bit 
old-fashioned. 

PIM.  So  he  married — er — Mrs.  Marden  instead. 

DINAH.  Mrs.  Telworthy — don't  say  you've  forgotten 
already,  just  when  you  were  getting  so  good  at  names. 
Mrs.  Telworthy.  You  see,  Olivia  married  the  Tel- 
worthy  man  and  went  to  Australia  with  him,  and  he 
drank  himself  to  death  in  the  bush,  or  wherever  you 
drink  yourself  to  death  out  there,  and  Olivia  came  home 
to  England,  and  met  my  uncle,  and  he  fell  in  love  with 
her  and  proposed  to  her,  and  he  came  into  my  room 
that  night — I  was  about  fourteen  —  and  turned  on 
the  light  and  said,  "  Dinah,  how  would  you  like  to  have 
a  beautiful  aunt  of  your  very  own  ?  "  And  I  said  : 
"  Congratulations,  George."  That  was  the  first  time 
I  called  him  George.  Of  course,  I'd  seen  it  coming  for 
weeks.  Telworthy,  isn't  it  a  funny  name  ? 

PIM.  Very  singular.     From  Australia,  you  say  ? 

DINAH.  Yes,  I  always  say  that  he's  probably  still 
alive,  and  will  turn  up  here  one  morning  and  annoy 
George,  because  that's  what  first  husbands  always  do 
in  books,  but  I'm  afraid  there's  not  much  chance. 

PIM  (shocked}.  Miss  Marden  ! 

DINAH.  Well,  of  course,  I  don't  really  want  it  to 
happen,  but  it  would  be  rather  exciting,  wouldn't  it  ? 
However,  things  like  that  never  seem  to  occur  down 
here,  somehow.  There  was  a  hay-rick  burnt  last  year 
about  a  mile  away,  but  that  isn't  quite  the  same  thing, 
is  it  ? 

PIM.  No,  I  should  say  that  that  was  certainly 
different. 

DINAH.  Of  course,  something  very,  very  wonderful 


ACT  i"|  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  77 

did  happen  last  night,  but  I'm  not  sure  if  I  know  you 
well  enough —        (She  looks  at  him  hesitatingly?) 

PIM  (uncomfortably).  Really,  Miss  Marden,  I  am  only 
a — a  passer-by,  here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow.  You 
really  mustn't 

DINAH.  And  yet  there's  something  about  you,  Mr. 
Pirn,  which  inspires  confidence.  The  fact  is — (in  a 
stage  whisper)— I  got  engaged  last  night ! 

PIM.  Dear  me,  let  me  congratulate  you. 

DINAH.  I  expect  that's  why  George  is  keeping  you 
such  a  long  time.  Brian,  my  young  man,  the  well- 
known  painter — only  nobody  has  ever  heard  of  him — 
he's  smoking  a  pipe  with  George  in  the  library  and 
asking  for  his  niece's  hand.  Isn't  it  exciting  ?  You're 
really  rather  lucky,  Mr.  Pirn — I  mean  being  told  so 
soon.  Even  Olivia  doesn't  know  yet. 

PIM  (getting  up).  Yes,  yes.    I  congratulate  you,  Miss 

Marden.     Perhaps  it  would  be  better 

[ANNE  comes  in. 

ANNE.  Mr.  Marden  is  out  at  the  moment,  sir 

Oh,  I  didn't  see  you,  Miss  Dinah. 

DINAH.  It's  all  right,  Anne.  I'm  looking  after  Mr.  Pirn. 

ANNE.  Yes,  Miss. 

[She  goes  out. 

DINAH  (excitedly).  That's  me.  They  can't  discuss  me  in 
the  library  without  breaking  down,  so  they're  walking  up 
and  down  outside,  and  slashing  at  the  thistles  in  order 
to  conceal  their  emotion.  You  know.  I  expect  Brian — — 

PIM  (looking  at  his  watch).  Yes,  I  think,  Miss  Marden, 
I  had  better  go  now  and  return  a  little  later.  I  have 
a  telegram  which  I  want  to  send,  and  perhaps  by  the 
time  I  came  back 

DINAH.  Oh,  but  how  disappointing  of  you,  when  we 
were  getting  on  together  so  nicely.  And  it  was  just 
going  to  be  your  turn  to  tell  me  all  about  yourself. 


78  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  i 

PIM.  I  have  really  nothing  to  tell,  Miss  Marden.  I 
have  a  letter  of  introduction  to  Mr.  Marden,  who  in 
turn  will  give  me,  I  hope,  a  letter  to  a  certain  dis- 
tinguished man  whom  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  meet. 
That  is  all.  (Holding  out  his  hand)  And  now,  Miss 
Marden 

DINAH.  Oh,  I'll  start  you  on  your  way  to  the  post 
office.  I  want  to  know  if  you're  married,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  You've  got  heaps  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Pirn. 
Have  you  got  your  hat  ?  That's  right.  Then  we'll — 
hullo,  here's  Brian. 

(BRIAN  STRANGE  comes  in  at  the  windows.  He  is 
what  GEORGE  calls  a  damned  futuristic  painter- 
chap,  aged  twenty-four.  To  look  at,  he  is  a 
very  pleasant  boy,  rather  untidily  dressed.) 

BRIAN  (nodding).  How  do  you  do  ? 

DINAH  (seising  him).  Brian,  this  is  Mr.  Pirn.  Mr. 
Carraway  Pirn.  He's  been  telling  me  all  about  himself. 
It's  so  interesting.  He's  just  going  to  send  a  telegram, 
and  then  he's  coming  back  again.  Mr.  Pirn,  this  is 
Brian — you  know. 

BRIAN  (smiling  and  shaking  hands).  How  do  you  do  ? 

DINAH  (pleadingly).  You  won't  mind  going  to  the  post 
office  by  yourself,  will  you,  because,  you  see,  Brian  and 
I — (she  looks  lovingly  at  BRIAN). 

PIM  (because  they  are  so  young).  Miss  Dinah  and  Mr. 
— er — Brian,  I  have  only  come  into  your  lives  for  a 
moment,  and  it  is  probable  that  I  shall  now  pass 
out  of  them  for  ever,  but  you  will  allow  an  old 


DINAH.  Oh,  not  old  ! 

PIM  (chuckling  happily).  Well,  a  middle-aged  man — 
to  wish  you  both  every  happiness  in  the  years  that  you 
have  before  you.  Good-bye,  good-bye. 

\Ile  disappears  gently  through  the  windows. 


ACT  i]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  79 

DINAU.  Brian,  he'll  get  lost  if  he  goes  that  way. 

BRIAN  (going  to  the  windows  and  calling  after  him). 
Round  to  the  left,  sir.  .  .  .  That's  right.  (He  comes 
back  into  the  room)  Rum  old  bird.  Who  is  he  ? 

DINAH.  Darling,  you  haven't  kissed  me  yet. 

BRIAN  (taking  her  in  his  arms).  I  oughtn't  to,  but  then 
one  never  ought  to  do  the  nice  things. 

DINAH.  Why  oughtn't  you  ? 

(They  sit  on  the  sofa  together.) 

BRIAN.  Well,  we  said  we'd  be  good  until  we'd  told 
your  uncle  and  aunt  all  about  it.  You  see,  being  a 
guest  in  their  house 

DINAH.  But,  darling  child,  what  have  you  been  doing 
all  this  morning  except  telling  George  ? 

BRIAN.  Trying  to  tell  George. 

DINAH  (nodding}.  Yes,  of  course,  there's  a  difference. 

BRIAN.  I  think  he  guessed  there  was  something  up, 
and  he  took  me  down  to  see  the  pigs — he  said  he  had 
to  see  the  pigs  at  once — I  don't  know  why ;  an 
appointment  perhaps.  And  we  talked  about  pigs  all 
the  way,  and  I  couldn't  say,  "  Talking  about  pigs,  I 
want  to  marry  your  niece " 

DINAH  (with  mock  indignation).  Of  course  you  couldn't. 

BRIAN.  No.  Well,  you  see  how  it  was.  And  then 
when  we'd  finished  talking  about  pigs,  we  started 
talking  to  the  pigs — 

DINAH  (eagerly}.  Oh,  how  is  Arnold  ? 

BRIAN.  The  little  black-and-white  one  ?  He's  very 
jolly,  I  believe,  but  naturally  I  wasn't  thinking  about 
him  much.  I  was  wondering  how  to  begin.  And  then 
Lumsden  came  up,  and  wanted  to  talk  pig-food,  and 
the  atmosphere  grew  less  and  less  romantic,  and — and 
I  gradually  drifted  away. 

DINAH.  Poor  darling.  Wei1.,  we  shall  have  to 
approach  him  through  Olivia, 


80  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  i 

BRIAN.  But  I  always  wanted  to  tell  her  first ;  she's 
so  much  easier.  Only  you  wouldn't  let  me. 

DINAH.  That's  your  fault,  Brian.  You  would  tell 
Olivia  that  she  ought  to  have  orange-and-black  curtains. 

BRIAN.  But  she  wants  orange-and-black  curtains. 

DINAH.  Yes,  but  George  says  he's  not  going  to  have 
any  futuristic  nonsense  in  an  honest  English  country 
house,  which  has  been  good  enough  for  his  father  and 
his  grandfather  and  his  great-grandfather,  and — and 
all  the  rest  of  them.  So  there's  a  sort  of  strained 
feeling  between  Olivia  and  George  just  now,  and  if 
Olivia  were  to — sort  of  recommend  you,  well,  it  wouldn't 
do  you  much  good. 

BRIAN  {looking  at  her).  I  see.  Of  course  I  know  what 
you  want,  Dinah. 

DINAH.  What  do  I  want  ? 

BRIAN.  You  want  a  secret  engagement,  and  notes 
left  under  door-mats,  and  meetings  by  the  withered 
thorn,  when  all  the  household  is  asleep.  /  know  you. 

DINAH.  Oh,  but  it  is  such  fun  !  I  love  meeting  people 
by  withered  thorns. 

BRIAN.  Well,  I'm  not  going  to  have  it. 

DINAH  (childishly).  Oh,  George  !  Look  at  us  being 
husbandy  ! 

BRIAN.  You  babe  !  I  adore  you.  (He  kisses  her  and 
holds  her  away  from  him  and  looks  at  her)  You  know, 
you're  rather  throwing  yourself  away  on  me.  Do  you 
mind  ? 

DINAH.  Not  a  bit. 

BRIAN.  We  shall  never  be  rich,  but  we  shall  have  lots 
of  fun,  and  meet  interesting  people,  and  feel  that  we're 
doing  something  worth  doing,  and  not  getting  paid 
nearly  enough  for  it,  and  we  can  curse  the  Academy 
together  and  the  British  Public,  and — oh,  it's  an 
exciting  life. 


ACT  i]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  81 

DINAH  (seeing  it).  I  shall  love  it. 

BRIAN.  I'll  make  you  love  it.  You  shan't  be  sorry, 
Dinah. 

DINAH.  You  shan't  be  sorry  either,  Brian. 

BRIAN  (looking  at  her  lovingly).  Oh,  I  know  I  shan't.  .  .  . 
What  will  Olivia  think  about  it  ?  Will  she  be  surprised  ? 

DINAH.  She's  never  surprised.  She  always  seems  to 
have  thought  of  things  about  a  week  before  they 
happen.  George  just  begins  to  get  hold  of  them 
about  a  week  after  they've  happened.  (Considering 
him)  After  all,  there's  no  reason  why  George  shouldn't 
like  you,  darling. 

BRIAN.  I'm  not  his  sort,  you  know. 

DINAH.  You're  more  Olivia's  sort.  Well,  we'll  tell 
Olivia  this  morning. 

OLIVIA  (coming  in).  And  what  are  you  going  to  tell 
Olivia  this  morning  ?  (She  looks  at  them  with  a  smile) 
Oh,  well,  I  think  I  can  guess. 

Shall  we  describe  OLIVIA  ?  But  you  will  know  all  about 
her  before  the  day  is  over. 

DINAH  (jumping  up).  Olivia,  darling  ! 

BRIAN  (following).  Say  you  understand,  Mrs.  Marden. 

OLIVIA.  Mrs.  Marden,  I  am  afraid,  is  a  very  dense 
person,  Brian,  but  I  think  if  you  asked  Olivia  if  she 
understood 

BRIAN.  Bless  you,  Olivia.    I  knew  you'd  be  on  our  side. 

DINAH.  Of  course  she  would. 

OLIVIA.  I  don't  know  if  it's  usual  to  kiss  an  aunt-in- 
law,  Brian,  but  Dinah  is  such  a  very  special  sort  of  niece 
that — (she  inclines  her  cheek  and  BRIAN  kisses  if). 

DINAH.  I  say,  you  are  in  luck  to-day,  Brian. 

OLIVIA  (going  over  to  her  chair  by  the  work-table  and 
getting  to  business  with  the.  curtains)  And  how  many  people 
have  been  told  the  good  news  ? 

G 


82  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  i 

BRIAN.  Nobody  yet. 

DINAH.  Except  Mr.  Pim. 

BRIAN.  Oh,  does  he 

OLIVIA.  Who's  Mr.  Pim  ? 

DINAH.  Oh,  he  just  happened — I  say,  are  those  the 
curtains  ?  Then  you're  going  to  have  them  after  all  ? 

OLIVIA  (with  an  air  of  surprise).  After  all  what  ?  But 
I  decided  on  them  long  ago.  (To  BRIAN)  You  haven't 
told  George  yet  ? 

BRIAN.  I  began  to,  you  know,  but  I  never  got  any 
farther  than  "  Er — there's  just — er " 

DINAH.  George  would  talk  about  pigs  all  the  time. 

OLIVIA.  Well,  I  suppose  you  want  me  to  help  you. 

DINAH.  Do,  darling. 

BRIAN.  It  would  be  awfully  decent  of  you.  Of  course, 
I'm  not  quite  his  sort  really 

DINAH.  You're  my  sort. 

BRIAN.  But  I  don't  think  he  objects  to  me,  and — 
(GEORGE  comes  in,  a  typical,  narrow-minded,  honest 
country  gentleman  of  forty  odd.} 

GEORGE  (at  the  windows}.  What's  all  this  about  a  Mr. 
Pim  ?  (He  kicks  some  of  the  mud  off  his  boots)  Who  is  he  ? 
Where  is  he  ?  I  had  most  important  business  with 
Lumsden,  and  the  girl  comes  down  and  cackles  about  a 
Mr.  Pim,  or  Ping,  or  something.  Where  did  I  put  his 
card  ?  (Bringing  it  out)  Carraway  Pim.  Never  heard  of 
him  in  my  life. 

DINAH.  He  said  he  had  a  letter  of  introduction,  Uncle 
George. 

GEORGE.  Oh,  you  saw  him,  did  you  ?  Yes,  that 
reminds  me,  there  was  a  letter — (he  brings  it  out  and 
reads  if). 

DINAH.  He  had  to  send  a  telegram.  He's  coming 
back. 

OLIVIA.  Pass  me  those  scissors,  Brian. 


ACT  i]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  83 

BRIAN.  These  ?  (He  picks  them  up  and  comes  close 
to  her.) 

OLIVIA.  Thank  you.  (She  indicates  GEORGE'S  back. 
"  Now  ?  "  says  BRIAN  with  his  eyebrows.  She  nods.) 

GEORGE  (reading).  Ah  well,  a  friend  of  Brymer's. 
Glad  to  oblige  him.  Yes,  I  know  the  man  he  wants. 
Coming  back,  you  say,  Dinah  ?  Then  I'll  be  going 
back.  Send  him  down  to  the  farm,  Olivia,  when  he 
comes.  (To  BRIAN)  Hallo,  what  happened  to  you  ? 

OLIVIA.  Don't  go,  George,  there's  something  we  want 
to  talk  about. 

GEORGE.  Hallo,  what's  this  ? 

BRIAN  (to  OLIVIA).  Shall  I ? 

OLIVIA.  Yes. 

BRIAN  (stepping  out).  I've  been  wanting  to  tell  you 
all  this  morning,  sir,  only  I  didn't  seem  to  have  an 
opportunity  of  getting  it  out. 

GEORGE.  Well,  what  is  it  ? 

BRIAN.  I  want  to  marry  Dinah,  sir. 

GEORGE.  You  want  to  marry  Dinah  ?  God  bless  my 
soul  ! 

DINAH  (rushing  to  him  and  putting  her  cheek  against  his 
coat).  Oh,  do  say  you  like  the  idea,  Uncle  George. 

GEORGE.  Like  the  idea  !  Have  you  heard  of  this 
nonsense,  Olivia  ? 

OLIVIA.  They've  just  this  moment  told  me,  George. 
I  think  they  would  be  happy  together. 

GEORGE  (to  BRIAN).  And  what  do  you  propose  to  be 
happy  together  on  ? 

BRIAN.  Well,  of  course,  it  doesn't  amount  to  much  at 
present,  but  we  shan't  starve. 

DINAH.  Brian  got  fifty  pounds  for  a  picture  last 
March  ! 

GEORGE  (a  little  upset  by  this).  Oh  !  (Recovering 
gamely)  And  how  many  pictures  have  you  sold  since  ? 


84  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  i 

BRIAN.  Well,  none,  but 

GEORGE.  None  !  And  I  don't  wonder.  Who  the 
devil  is  going  to  buy  pictures  with  triangular  clouds 
and  square  sheep  ?  And  they  call  that  Art  nowadays  ! 
Good  God,  man,  (waving  him  to  the  windows)  go  outside 
and  look  at  the  clouds  ! 

OLIVIA.  If  he  draws  round  clouds  in  future,  George, 
will  you  let  him  marry  Dinah  ? 

GEORGE.  What — what  ?  Yes,  of  course,  you  would 
be  on  his  side — all  this  Futuristic  nonsense.  I'm  just 
taking  these  clouds  as  an  example.  I  suppose  I  can 
see  as  well  as  any  man  in  the  county,  and  I  say  that 
clouds  aren't  triangular. 

BRIAN.  After  all,  sir,  at  my  age  one  is  naturally 
experimenting,  and  trying  to  find  one's  (with  a  laugh} — 
well,  it  sounds  priggish,  but  one's  medium  of  expression. 
I  shall  find  out  what  I  want  to  do  directly,  but  I  think 
I  shall  always  be  able  to  earn  enough  to  live  on.  Well, 
I  have  for  the  last  three  years. 

GEORGE.  I  see,  and  now  you  want  to  experiment  with 
a  wife,  and  you  propose  to  start  experimenting  with  my 
niece  ? 

BRIAN  (with  a  shrug).  Well,  of  course,  if  you 

OLIVIA.  You  could  help  the  experiment,  darling,  by 
giving  Dinah  a  good  allowance  until  she's  twenty-one. 

GEORGE.  Help  the  experiment  !  I  don't  want  to  help 
the  experiment. 

OLIVIA  (apologetically].  Oh,  I  thought  you  did. 

GEORGE.  You  will  talk  as  if  I  was  made  of  money.  What 
with  taxes  always  going  up  and  rents  always  going 
down,  it's  as  much  as  we  can  do  to  rub  along  as  we 
are,  without  making  allowances  to  everybody  who 
thinks  she  wants  to  get  married.  (To  BRIAN)  And  that's 
thanks  to  you,  my  friend. 

BRIAN  (surprised).  To  me  ? 


ACT  i]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  85 

OLIVIA.  You  never  told  me,  darling.  What's  Brian 
been  doing  ? 

DINAH  (indignantly).  He  hasn't  been  doing  anything. 

OEOROE.  He's  one  of  your  Socialists  who  go  turning 
the  country  upside  down. 

OLIVIA.  But  even  Socialists  must  get  married  some- 
times. 

GEORGE.  I  don't  see  any  necessity. 

OLIVIA.  But  you'd  have  nobody  to  damn  after  dinner, 
darling,  if  they  all  died  out. 

BRIAN.  Really,  sir,  I  don't  see  what  my  politics  and 
my  art  have  got  to  do  with  it.  I'm  perfectly  ready  not 
to  talk  about  either  when  I'm  in  your  house,  and  as 
Dinah  doesn't  seem  to  object  to  them 

DINAH.  I  should  think  she  doesn't. 

GEORGE.  Oh,  you  can  get  round  the  women,  I  daresay. 

BRIAN.  Well,  it's  Dinah  I  want  to  marry  and  live  with. 
So  what  it  really  comes  to  is  that  you  don't  think  I 
can  support  a  wife. 

GEORGE.  Well,  if  you're  going  to  do  it  by  selling 
pictures,  I  don't  think  you  can. 

BRIAN.  All  right,  tell  me  how  much  you  want  me  to 
earn  in  a  year,  and  I'll  earn  it. 

GEORGE  (hedging).  It  isn't  merely  a  question  of  money. 
I  just  mention  that  as  one  thing — one  of  the  important 
things.  In  addition  to  that,  I  think  you  are  both  too 
young  to  marry.  I  don't  think  you  know  your  own 
minds,  and  I  am  not  at  all  persuaded  that,  with  what 
I  venture  to  call  your  outrageous  tastes,  you  and  my 
niece  will  live  happily  together.  Just  because  she 
thinks  she  loves  you,  Dinah  may  persuade  herself  now 
that  she  agrees  with  all  you  say  and  do,  but  she  has  been 
properly  brought  up  in  an  honest  English  country  house- 
hold, and — er — she — well,  in  short,  I  cannot  at  all 
approve  of  any  engagement  between  you.  (Getting  up) 


86  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  i 

Olivia,  if  this  Mr. — er — Pirn  comes,  I  shall  be  down  at 
the  farm.     You  might  send  him  along  to  me. 

(He  walks  towards  the  windows.) 

BRIAN  (indignantly).  Is  there  any  reason  why  I 
shouldn't  marry  a  girl  who  has  been  properly  brought  up  ? 

GEORGE.  I  think  you  know  my  views,  Strange. 

OLIVIA.  George,  wait  a  moment,  dear.  We  can't 
quite  leave  it  like  this. 

GEORGE.  I  have  said  all  I  want  to  say  on  the  subject. 

OLIVIA.  Yes,  darling,  but  I  haven't  begun  to  say  all 
that  /  want  to  say  on  the  subject. 

GEORGE.  Of  course,  if  you  have  anything  to  say, 
Olivia,  I  will  listen  to  it ;  but  I  don't  know  that  this  is 
quite  the  time,  or  that  you  have  chosen — (looking  darkly 
at  the  curtains] — quite  the  occupation  likely  to — er — 
endear  your  views  to  me. 

DINAH  (mutinously).  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  Uncle 
George,  that  7  have  got  a  good  deal  to  say,  too. 

OLIVIA.  I  can  guess  what  you  are  going  to  say,  Dinah, 
and  I  think  you  had  better  keep  it  for  the  moment. 

DINAH  (meekly).  Yes,  Aunt  Olivia. 

OLIVIA.  Brian,  you  might  take  her  outside  for  a  walk. 
I  expect  you  have  plenty  to  talk  about. 

GEORGE.  Now  mind,  Strange,  no  love-making.  I  put 
you  on  your  honour  about  that. 

BRIAN.  I'll  do  my  best  to  avoid  it,  sir. 

DINAH  (cheekily).  May  I  take  his  arm  if  we  go  up  a 
hill  ? 

OLIVIA.  I'm  sure  you'll  know  how  to  behave — both 
of  you. 

BRIAN.  Come  on,  then,  Dinah. 

DINAH.  Righto. 

GEORGE  (as  they  go).  And  if  you  do  see  any  clouds, 
Strange,  take  a  good  look  at  them.  (He  chuckles  to  him- 
self) Triangular  clouds — I  never  heard  of  such  non- 


ACT  i]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  87 

sense.  (He  goes  back  to  his  chair  at  the  writing-table) 
Futuristic  rubbish  .  .  .  Well,  Olivia  ? 

OLIVIA.  Well,  George  ? 

GEORGE.  What  are  you  doing  ? 

OLIVIA.  Making  curtains,  George.  Won't  they  be 
rather  sweet  ?  Oh,  but  I  forgot — you  don't  like  them. 

GEORGE.  I  don't  like  them,  and  what  is  more,  I  don't 
mean  to  have  them  in  my  house.  As  I  told  you  yester- 
day, this  is  the  house  of  a  simple  country  gentleman, 
and  I  don't  want  any  of  these  new-fangled  ideas  in  it. 

OLIVIA.  Is  marrying  for  love  a  new-fangled  idea  ? 

GEORGE.  We'll  come  to  that  directly.  None  of  you 
women  can  keep  to  the  point.  What  I  am  saying  now 
is  that  the  houoe  of  my  fathers  and  forefathers  is  good 
enough  for  me. 

OLIVIA.  Do  you  know,  George,  I  can  hear  one  of  your 
ancestors  saying  that  to  his  wife  in  their  smelly  old 
cave,  when  the  new-fangled  idea  of  building  houses 
was  first  suggested.  "  The  Cave  of  my  Fathers  is " 

GEORGE.  That's  ridiculous.  Naturally  we  must  have 
progress.  But  that's  just  the  point.  (Indicating  the 
curtains)  I  don't  call  this  sort  of  thing  progress.  It's 
— ah — retrogression . 

OLIVIA.  Well,  anyhow,  it's  pretty. 

GEORGE.  There  I  disagree  with  you.  And  I  must  say 
once  more  that  I  will  not  have  them  hanging  in  my 
house. 

OLIVIA.  Very  well,  George.     (But  she  goes  on  working.) 

GEORGE.  That  being  so,  I  don't  see  the  necessity  of 
going  on  with  them. 

OLIVIA.  Well,  I  must  do  something  with  them  now 
I've  got  the  material.  I  thought  perhaps  I  could  sell 
them  when  they're  finished — as  we're  so  poor. 

GEORGE.  What  do  you  mean — so  poor  ? 

OLIVIA.  Well,  you  said  just  now  that  you  couldn't 


88  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  i 

give  Dinah  an  allowance  because  rents  had  gone 
down. 

GEORGE  (annoyed).  Confound  it,  Olivia  !  Keep  to  the 
point!  We'll  talk  about  Dinah's  affairs  directly.  We're 
discussing  our  own  affairs  at  the  moment. 

OLIVIA.  But  what  is  there  to  discuss  ? 

GEORGE.  Those  ridiculous  things. 

OLIVIA.  But  we've  finished  that.  You've  said  you 
wouldn't  have  them  hanging  in  your  house,  and  I've 
said,  "  Very  well,  George."  Now  we  can  go  on  to 
Dinah  and  Brian. 

GEORGE  (shouting).  But  put  these  beastly  things  away. 

OLIVIA  (rising  and  gathering  up  the  curtains).  Very  well, 
George.  (She  puts  them  away,  slowly,  gracefully.  There 
is  an  uncomfortable  silence.  Evidently  somebody  ought  to 
apologised) 

GEORGE  (realising  that  he  is  the  one}.  Er — look  here, 
Olivia,  old  girl,  you've  been  a  jolly  good  wife  to  me,  and 
we  don't  often  have  rows,  and  if  I've  been  rude  to  you 
about  this — lost  my  temper  a  bit  perhaps,  what  ? — I'll 
say  I'm  sorry.  May  I  have  a  kiss  ? 

OLIVIA  (holding  up  her  face).  George,  darling  !  (He 
kisses  her.}  Do  you  love  me  ? 

GEORGE.  You  know  I  do,  old  girl. 

OLIVIA.  As  much  as  Brian  loves  Dinah  ? 

GEORGE  (stiffly}.  I've  said  all  I  want  to  say  about 
that.  (He  goes  away  from  her} 

OLIVIA.  Oh,  but  there  must  be  lots  you  want  to  say 
— and  perhaps  don't  like  to.  Do  tell  me,  darling. 

GEORGE.  What  it  comes  to  is  this.  I  consider  that 
Dinah  is  too  young  to  choose  a  husband  for  herself,  and 
that  Strange  isn't  the  husband  I  should  choose  for  her. 

OLIVIA.  You  were  calling  him  Brian  yesterday. 

GEORGE.  Yesterday  I  regarded  him  as  a  boy,  now  he 
wants  me  to  look  upon  him  as  a  man. 


ACT  i]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  89 

OLIVIA.  He's  twenty-four. 

GEOKQE.  And  Dinah's  nineteen.     Ridiculous  ! 

OLIVIA.  If  he'd  been  a  Conservative,  and  thought  that 
clouds  were  round,  I  suppose  he'd  have  seemed  older, 
somehow. 

GEORGE.  That's  a  different  point  altogether.  That 
has  nothing  to  do  with  his  age. 

OLIVIA  (innocently).  Oh,  I  thought  it  had. 

GEORGE.  What  I  am  objecting  to  is  these  ridiculously 
early  marriages  before  either  party  knows  its  own  mind, 
much  less  the  rnind  of  the  other  party.  Such  marriages 
invariably  lead  to  unhappiness. 

OLIVIA.  Of  course,  my  first  marriage  wasn't  a  happy 
one. 

GEORGE.  As  you  know,  Olivia,  I  dislike  speaking  about 
your  first  marriage  at  all,  and  I  had  no  intention  of 
bringing  it  up  now,  but  since  you  mention  it — well, 
that  is  a  case  in  point. 

OLIVIA  (looking  back  at  if).  When  I  was  eighteen,  I 
was  in  love.  Or  perhaps  I  only  thought  I  was,  and  I 
don't  know  if  I  should  have  been  happy  or  not  if  I  had 
married  him.  But  my  father  made  me  marry  a  man 
called  Jacob  Telworthy ;  and  when  things  were  too  hot 
for  him  in  England — "  too  hot  for  him  " — I  think  that 
was  the  expression  we  used  in  those  days — then  we 
went  to  Australia,  and  I  left  him  there,  and  the  only 
happy  moment  I  had  in  all  my  married  life  was  on 
the  morning  when  I  saw  in  the  papers  that  he  was 
dead. 

GEORGE  (very  uncomfortable).  Yes,  yes,  my  dear,  I 
know.  You  must  have  had  a  terrible  time.  I  can 
hardly  bear  to  think  about  it.  My  only  hope  is  that 
I  have  made  up  to  you  for  it  in  some  degree.  But  I 
don't  see  what  bearing  it  has  upon  Dinah's  case. 

OLIVIA.  Oh,  none,  except  that  my  father  liked  Jacob's 


90  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  i 

political  opinions  and  his  views  on  art.  I  expect  that 
that  was  why  he  chose  him  for  me. 

GEORGE.  You  seem  to  think  that  I  wish  to  choose  a 
husband  for  Dinah.  I  don't  at  all.  Let  her  choose 
whom  she  likes  as  long  as  he  can  support  her  and 
there's  a  chance  of  their  being  happy  together.  Now, 
with  regard  to  this  fellow 

OLIVIA.  You  mean  Brian  ? 

GEORGE.  He's  got  no  money,  and  he's  been  brought 
up  in  quite  a  different  way  from  Dinah.  Dinah  may 
be  prepared  to  believe  that — er — all  cows  are  blue, 
and  that — er — waves  are  square,  but  she  won't  go  on 
believing  it  for  ever. 

OLIVIA.  Neither  will  Brian. 

GEORGE.  Well,  that's  what  I  keep  telling  him,  only 
he  won't  see  it.  Just  as  I  keep  telling  you  about 
those  ridiculous  curtains.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  am 
the  only  person  in  the  house  with  any  eyesight 
left. 

OLIVIA.  Perhaps  you  are,  darling  ;  but  you  must  let 
us  find  out  our  own  mistakes  for  ourselves.  At  any 
rate,  Brian  is  a  gentleman  ;  he  loves  Dinah,  Dinah 
loves  him  ;  he's  earning  enough  to  support  himself, 
and  you  are  earning  enough  to  support  Dinah.  I  think 
it's  worth  risking,  George. 

GEORGE  (stiffly}.  I  can  only  say  the  whole  question 
demands  much  more  anxious  thought  than  you  seem 
to  have  given  it.  You  say  that  he  is  a  gentleman. 
He  knows  how  to  behave,  I  admit  ;  but  if  his  morals 
are  as  topsy-turvy  as  his  tastes  and — er — politics,  as 
I've  no  doubt  they  are,  then — er —  In  short,  I  do 
not  approve  of  Brian  Strange  as  a  husband  for  my  niece 
and  ward. 

OLIVIA  (looking  at  him  thoughtfully].  You  are  a  curious 
mixture,  George.  You  were  so  very  unconventional 


ACT  i]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  91 

when  you  married  me,  and  you're  so  very  conventional 
when  Brian  wants  to  marry  Dinah.  .  .  .  George  Marden 
to  marry  the  widow  of  a  convict  ! 

GEORGE.  Convict !     What  do  you  mean  ? 

OLIVIA.  Jacob  Telvvorthy,  convict  —  I  forget  his 
number — surely  I  told  you  all  this,  dear,  when  we  got 
engaged  ? 

GEORGE.  Never  ! 

OLIVIA.  I  told  you  how  he  carelessly  put  the  wrong 
signature  to  a  cheque  for  a  thousand  pounds  in  England  ; 
how  he  made  a  little  mistake  about  two  or  three  com- 
panies he'd  promoted  in  Australia  ;  and  how 

GEORGE.  Yes,  yes,  but  you  never  told  me  he  was 
convicted  I 

OLIVIA.  What  difference  does  it  make  ? 

GEORGE.  My  dear  Olivia,  if  you  can't  see  that — a 
convict ! 

OLIVIA.  So,  you  see,  we  needn't  be  too  particular 
about  our  niece,  need  we  ? 

GEORGE.  I  think  we  had  better  leave  your  first  husband 
out  of  the  conversation  altogether.  I  never  wished  to 
refer  to  him  ;  I  never  wish  to  hear  about  him  again. 
I  certainly  had  not  realised  that  he  was  actually — er — 
convicted  for  his — er 

OLIVIA.  Mistakes. 

GEORGE.  Well,  we  needn't  go  into  that.  As  for  this 
other  matter,  I  don't  for  a  moment  take  it  seriously. 
Dinah  is  an  exceptionally  pretty  girl,  and  young 
Strange  is  a  good-looking  boy.  If  they  are  attracted 
to  each  other,  it  is  a  mere  outward  attraction  which 
I  am  convinced  will  not  lead  to  any  lasting  happiness. 
That  must  be  regarded  as  my  last  word  in  the  matter, 
Olivia.  If  this  Mr. — er — what  was  his  name,  comes, 
I  shall  be  down  at  the  farm. 

[Pie  goes  out  by  the  door. 


92  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  i 

(Left  alone,  OLIVIA  brings  out  her  curtains  again, 

and  gets  calmly  to  work  upon  them.) 
(DINAH  and  BRIAN  come  in  by  the  windows?) 

DINAH.  Finished  ? 

OLIVIA.  Oh  no,  I've  got  all  these  rings  to  put  on. 

DINAH.  I  meant  talking  to  George. 

BRIAN.  We  walked  about  outside 

DINAH.  Until  we  heard  him  not  talking  to  you  any 
more 

BRIAN.  And  we  didn't  kiss  each  other  once. 

DINAH.  Brian  was  very  George-like.  He  wouldn't 
even  let  me  tickle  the  back  of  his  neck.  (She  goes  up 
suddenly  to  OLIVIA  and  kneels  by  her  and  kisses  her) 
Darling,  being  George-like  is  a  very  nice  thing  to  be — 
I  mean  a  nice  thing  for  other  people  to  be — I  mean — 
oh,  you  know  what  I  mean.  But  say  that  he's  going  to 
be  decent  about  it. 

OLIVIA.  Of  course  he  is,  Dinah. 

BRIAN.  You  mean  he'll  let  me  come  here  as — as 

DINAH.  As  my  young  man  ? 

OLIVIA.  Oh,  I  think  so. 

DINAH.  Olivia,  you're  a  wonder.  Have  you  really 
talked  him  round  ? 

OLIVIA.  I  haven't  said  anything  yet.  But  I  daresay 
I  shall  think  of  something. 

DINAH  (disappointedly).  Oh  ! 

BRIAN  (making  the  best  of  if).  After  all,  Dinah,  I'm 
going  back  to  London  to-morrow 

OLIVIA.  You  can  be  good  for  one  more  day,  Dinah, 
and  then  when  Brian  isn't  here,  we'll  see  what  we 
can  do. 

DINAH.  Yes,  but  I  didn't  want  him  to  go  back  to- 
morrow. 

BRIAN  (sternly^.  Must.  Hard  work  before  me.  Earn 
thousands  a  year.  Paint  the  Mayor  and  Corporation 


ACT  i]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  93 

of  Pudsey,  life-size,  including  chains  of  office  ;  paint 
slice  of  haddock  on  plate.  Copy  Landseer  for  old 
gentleman  in  Bayswater.  Design  antimacassar  for 
middle-aged  sofa  in  Streatham.  Earn  a  living  for  you, 
Dinah. 

DINAH  (giggling).  Oh,  Brian,  you're  heavenly.  What 
fun  we  shall  have  when  we're  married. 

BRIAN  (stiffly).  Sir  Brian  Strange,  R.A.,  if  you  please, 
Miss  Marden.  Sir  Brian  Strange,  R.A.,  writes  :  "  Your 
Sanogene  has  proved  a  most  excellent  tonic.  After 
completing  the  third  acre  of  my  Academy  picture  '  The 
Mayor  and  Corporation  of  Pudsey  '  I  was  completely 
exhausted,  but  one  bottle  of  Sanogene  revived  me,  and 
I  finished  the  remaining  seven  acres  at  a  single  sitting." 

OLIVIA  (looking  about  her).  Brian,  find  my  scissors 
for  me. 

BRIAN.  Scissors.  (Looking  for  them)  Sir  Brian  Strange, 
R.A.,  looks  for  scissors.  {Finding  them)  Aha  !  Once 
more  we  must  record  an  unqualified  success  for  the 
eminent  Academician.  Your  scissors. 

OLIVIA.  Thank  you  so  much. 

DINAH.  Come  on,  Brian,  let's  go  out.  I  feel 
open-airy. 

OLIVIA.  Don't  be  late  for  lunch,  there's  good  people. 
Lady  Marden  is  coming. 

DINAH.  Aunt  Juli-ah  !  Help  !  (She  faints  in  BRIAN'S 
arms]  That  means  a  clean  pinafore.  Brian,  you'll  jolly 
well  have  to  brush  your  hair. 

ISRIAN  (feeling  if).  I  suppose  there's  no  lime  now  to 
go  up  to  London  and  get  it  cut  ? 

Enter  ANNE,yb//o«'erf  by  PIM. 

ANNE.  Mr.  Pirn  ! 

DINAH  (delighted}.  Hullo,  Mr.  Pirn  !  Here  we  are 
again  !  You  can't  get  rid  of  us  so  easily,  you  see. 


94  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACTI 


PIM.  I — er — dear  Miss  Marden- 


OLIVIA.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Pirn  ?  I  can't  get  up, 
but  do  come  and  sit  down.  My  husband  will  be  here 
in  a  minute.  Anne,  send  somebody  down  to  the 
farm 

ANNE.  I  think  I  heard  the  Master  in  the  library, 
madam. 

OLIVIA.  Oh,  will  you  tell  him  then  ? 

ANNE.  Yes,  madam. 

[ANNE  goes  out. 

OLIVIA.  You'll  stay  to  lunch,  of  course,  Mr.  Pirn  ? 

DINAH.  Oh,  do  ! 

PIM.  It's  very  kind  of  you,  Mrs.  Marden,  but 

DINAH.  Oh,  you  simply  must,  Mr.  Pirn.  You  haven't 
told  us  half  enough  about  yourself  yet.  I  want  to  hear 
all  about  your  early  life. 

OLIVIA.  Dinah  ! 

PIM.  Oh,  we  are  almost,  I  might  say,  old  friends, 
Mrs.  Marden. 

DINAH.  Of  course  we  are.  He  knows  Brian,  too. 
There's  more  in  Mr.  Pirn  than  you  think.  You  will  stay 
to  lunch,  won't  you  ? 

PIM.  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  ask  me,  Mrs.  Marden, 
but  I  am  lunching  with  the  Trevors. 

OLIVIA.  Oh,  well,  you  must  come  to  lunch  another  day. 

DINAH.  The  reason  why  we  like  Mr.  Pirn  so  much  is 
that  he  was  the  first  person  to  congratulate  us.  We 
feel  that  he  is  going  to  have  a  great  influence  on  our 
lives. 

PIM  (to  OLIVIA).  I,  so  to  speak,  stumbled  on  the 
engagement  this  morning  and — er 

OLIVIA.  I  see.  Children,  you  must  go  and  tidy  your- 
selves up.  Run  along. 

BRIAN.  Sir  Brian  and  Lady  Strange  never  run  ;  they 
walk.  (Offering  his  ami)  Madam  ! 


ACT  i]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  95 

DINAH  (taking  it).  Au  revoir,  Mr.  Pirn.  (Dramatically) 
We shall meet again  ! 

PIM  (chuckling).  Good  morning,  Miss  Dinah. 

BRIAN.  Good  morning. 

[He  and  DINAH  go  out. 

OLIVIA.  Youmust forgive  them, Mr.Pim.  They'resuch 
children .  And  naturally  they  're  rather  excited  just  now . 

PIM.  Oh,  not  at  all,  Mrs.  Marden. 

OLIVIA.  Of  course  you  won't  say  anything  about  their 
engagement.  We  only  heard  about  it  five  minutes  ago, 
and  nothing  has  been  settled  yet. 

PIM.  Of  course,  of  course  ! 

Enter  GEORGE. 

GEORGE.  Ah,  Mr.  Pirn,  we  meet  at  last.  Sorry  to 
have  kept  you  waiting  before. 

PIM.  The  apology  should  come  from  me,  Mr.  Marden 
for  having — er 

GEORGE.  Not  at  all.  Very  glad  to  meet  you  now. 
Any  friend  of  Brymer's.  You  want  a  letter  to  this  man 
Fanshawe  ? 

OLIVIA.  Shall  I  be  in  your  way  at  all  ? 

PIM.  Oh,  no,  no,  please  don't. 

GEORGE.  It's  only  just  a  question  of  a  letter.  (Going 
to  his  desk)  Fanshawe  will  put  you  in  the  way  of  seeing 
all  that  you  want  to  see.  He's  a  very  old  friend  of  mine. 
(Taking  a  sheet  of  noiepaper)  You'll  stay  to  lunch,  of 
course  ? 

PIM.  I'm  afraid  I  am  lunching  with  the  Trevors 

GEORGE.  Oh,  well,  they'll  look  after  you  all  right. 
Good  chap,  Trevor. 

PIM  (to  OLIVIA).  You  see,  Mrs.  Marden,  I  have  only 
recently  arrived  from  Australia  after  travelling  about 
the  world  for  some  years,  and  I'm  rather  out  of  touch 
with  my — er — fellow-workers  in  London. 


96  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  i 

OLIVIA.  Oh  yes.    You've  been  in  Australia,  Mr.  Pirn  ? 

GEORGE  (disliking  Australia).  I  shan't  be  a  moment, 
Mr.  Pirn.  (He  frowns  at  OLIVIA.) 

PIM.  Oh,  that's  all  right,  thank  you.  (To  OLIVIA)  Oh 
yes,  I  have  been  in  Australia  more  than  once  in  the  last 
few  years. 

OLIVIA.  Really  ?  I  used  to  live  at  Sydney  many  years 
ago.  Do  you  know  Sydney  at  all  ? 

GEORGE  (detesting  Sydney).  H'r'm !  Perhaps  I'd  better 
mention  that  you  are  a  friend  of  the  Trevors  ? 

PIM.  Thank  you,  thank  you.  (To  OLIVIA)  Indeed  yes, 
I  spent  several  months  in  Sydney. 

OLIVIA.  How  curious.  I  wonder  if  we  have  any 
friends  in  common  there. 

GEORGE  (hastily}.  Extremely  unlikely,  I  should  think. 
Sydney  is  a  very  big  place. 

PIM.  True,  but  the  world  is  a  very  small  place,  Mr. 
Marden.  I  had  a  remarkable  instance  of  that,  coming 
over  on  the  boat  this  last  time. 

GEORGE.  Ah  !  (Feeling  that  the  conversation  is  now  safe, 
he  resumes  his  letter.') 

PIM.  Yes.  There  was  a  man  I  used  to  employ  in 
Sydney  some  years  ago,  a  bad  fellow,  I'm  afraid,  Mrs, 
Marden,  who  had  been  in  prison  for  some  kind  of 
fraudulent  company-promoting  and  had  taken  to  drink 
and — and  so  on. 

OLIVIA.  Yes,  yes,  I  understand. 

PIM.  Drinking  himself  to  death  I  should  have  said. 
I  gave  him  at  the  most  another  year  to  live.  Yet  to  my 
amazement  the  first  person  I  saw  as  I  stepped  on  board 
the  boat  that  brought  me  to  England  last  week  was  this 
fellow.  There  was  no  mistaking  him.  I  spoke  to  him, 
in  fact  ;  we  recognised  each  other. 

OLIVIA.  Really  ? 

PIM.  He  was  travelling  steerage  ;    we  didn't  meet 


ACT  i]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  97 

again  on  board,  and  as  it  happened  at  Marseilles,  this 
poor  fellow — er — now  what  was  his  name  ?  A  very 
unusual  one.  Began  with  a — a  T,  I  think. 

OLIVIA  (with  suppressed  feeling).  Yes,  Mr.  Pirn,  yes  ? 
(She  puts  out  a  hand  to  GEORGE.) 

GEORGE  (in  an  undertone).  Nonsense,  dear  ! 

PIM  (triumphantly).  I've  got  it !     Telworthy  ! 

OLIVIA.  Telworthy  ! 

GEORGE.  Good  God  ! 

PIM  (a  little  surprised  at  the  success  of  his  story).  An 
unusual  name,  is  it  not  ?  Not  a  name  you  could  forget 
when  once  you  had  heard  it. 

OLIVIA  (with  feeling).  No,  it  is  not  a  name  you  could 
forget  when  once  you  had  heard  it. 

GEORGE  (hastily  coming  over  to  PIM).  Quite  so,  Mr. 
Pirn,  a  most  remarkable  name,  a  most  odd  story  alto- 
gether. Well,  well,  here's  your  letter,  and  if  you're 
sure  you  won't  stay  to  lunch 

PIM.  I'm  afraid  not,  thank  you.     You  see,  I 

GEORGE.  The  Trevors,  yes.  I'll  just  see  you  on  your 
way (To  OLIVIA)  Er — my  dear 

OLIVIA  (holding  out  her  hand,  but  not  looking  at  him). 
Good-bye,  Mr.  Pirn. 

PIM.  Good-bye,  good-bye  ! 

GEORGE  (leading  the  way  through  the  windows).  This 
way,  this  way.  Quicker  for  you. 

PIM.  Thank  you,  thank  you. 

[GEORGE  hurries  MR.  PIM  out. 

(OLIVIA  sits  there  and  looks  into  the  past.    Now  and 
then  she  shudders?) 

[GEORGE  comes  back. 

GEORGE.  Good  God  !     Telworthy  !     Is  it  possible  ? 
(Before    OLIVIA     can    answer,    LADY     MARDEX    is 
announced.     They  pull  themselves  together  and 
greet  her.) 


ACT  II 

Lunch  is  over  and  coffee  has  been  served  on  the  terrace. 
Conversation  drags  on,  to  the  satisfaction  of  LADY 
HARDEN,  but  of  nobody  else.  GEORGE  and  OLIVIA 
want  to  be  alone ;  so  do  BRIAN  and  DINAH.  At 
last  BRIAN  murmurs  something  about  a  cigarette- 
case  ;  and,  catching  DINAH'S  eye,  comes  into  the 
house.  He  leans  against  the  sofa  and  waits  for 
DINAH. 

DINAH  (loudly  as  she  comes  in).  Have  you  found  it  ? 

BRIAN.  Found  what  ? 

DINAH  (in  her  ordinary  voice).  That  was  just  for  their 
benefit.  I  said  I'd  help  you  find  it.  It  is  your  cigarette- 
case  we're  looking  for,  isn't  it  ? 

BRIAN  (taking  it  out).  Yes.     Have  one  ? 

DINAH.  No,  thank  you,  darling.  Aunt  Juli-ah  still 
thinks  it's  unladylike.  .  .  .  Have  you  ever  seen  her 
beagling  ? 

BRIAN.  No.     Is  that  very  ladylike  ? 

DINAH.  Very.  ...  I  say,  what  has  happened,  do  you 
think  ? 

BRIAN.  Everything.     I  love  you,  and  you  love  me. 

DINAH.  Silly  !  I  meant  between  George  and  Olivia. 
Didn't  you  notice  them  at  lunch  ? 

BRIAN.  I  noticed  that  you  seemed  to  be  doing  most 
of  the  talking.  But  then  I've  noticed  that  before 
sometimes.  Do  you  think  Olivia  and  your  uncle  have 
quarrelled  because  of  us  ? 

98 


ACT  n]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  99 

DINAH.  Of  course  not.  George  may  think  he  has 
quarrelled,  but  I'm  quite  sure  Olivia  hasn't.  No,  I 
believe  Mr.  Pirn's  at  the  bottom  of  it.  He's  brought 
some  terribly  sad  news  about  George's  investments. 
The  old  home  will  have  to  be  sold  up. 

BRIAN.  Good.  Then  your  uncle  won't  mind  your 
marrying  me. 

DINAH.  Yes,  darling,  but  you  must  be  more  dramatic 
about  it  than  that.  "  George,"  you  must  say,  with 
tears  in  your  eyes,  "  I  cannot  pay  off  the  whole  of  the 
mortgage  for  you.  I  have  only  two  and  ninepence  ; 
but  at  least  let  me  take  your  niece  off  your  hands." 
Then  George  will  thump  you  on  the  back  and  say 
gruffly,  "  You're  a  good  fellow,  Brian,  a  damn  good 
fellow,"  and  he'll  blow  his  nose  very  loudly,  and  say, 
"  Confound  this  cigar,  it  won't  draw  properly."  (She 
gives  us  a  rough  impression  of  GEORGE  doing  t/.) 

BRIAN.  Dinah,  you're  a  heavenly  idiot.  And  you've 
simply  got  to  marry  me,  uncles  or  no  uncles. 

DINAH.  It  will  have  to  be  "  uncles,"  I'm  afraid, 
because,  you  see,  I'm  his  ward,  and  I  can  get  sent  to 
Chancery  or  Coventry  or  somewhere  beastly,  if  I  marry 
without  his  consent.  Haven't  you  got  anybody  who 
objects  to  your  marrying  me  ? 

BRIAN.  Nobody,  thank  Heaven. 

DINAH.  Well,  that's  rather  disappointing  of  you.  I 
saw  myself  fascinating  your  aged  father  at  the  same 
time  that  you  were  fascinating  George.  I  should  have 
done  it  much  better  than  you.  As  a  George-fascinator 
you  aren't  very  successful,  sweetheart. 

BRIAN.  What  am  I  like  as  a  Dinah-fascinator  ? 

DINAH.  Plus  six,  darling. 

BRIAN.  Then  I'll  stick  to  that  and  leave  George  to 
Olivia. 

DINAH.  I  expect  she'll  manage  him  all  right.    I  have 


100  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  n 

great  faith  in  Olivia.     But  you'll  marry  me,  anyhow, 
won't  you,  Brian  ? 
BRIAN.  I  will. 

DINAH.  Even  if  we  have  to  wait  till  I'm  twenty-one  ? 
BRIAN.  Even  if  we  have  to  wait  till  you're  fifty-one. 
DINAH  (holding  out  her  hands  to  him}.  Darling  ! 
BRIAN  (uneasily}.  I  say,  don't  do  that. 
DINAH.  Why  not  ? 

BRIAN.  Well,  I  promised  I  wouldn't  kiss  you. 
DINAH.  Oh  !  .   .  .  Well,  you  might  just  send  me  a 
kiss.    You  can  look  the  other  way  as  if  you  didn't  know 
I  was  here. 

BRIAN.  Like  this  ? 

(He  looks  the  other  may,  kisses  the  tips  of  his  fingers, 

and  flicks  it  carelessly  in  her  direction.} 
DINAH.  That  was  a  lovely  one.    Now  here's  one  coming 
for  you. 

(He   catches   it  gracefully    and   conveys   it   to   his 

mouth?) 

BRIAN  (with  a  low  bow}.  Madam,  I  thank  you. 
DINAH  (curtseying}.  Your  servant,  Mr.  Strange. 
OLIVIA  (from  outside}.  Dinah  ! 
DINAH  (jumping  up).  Hullo  ! 

(OLIVIA  comes  in  through  the  windows,  followed  by 
GEORGE  and  LADY  MARDEN,  the  latter  a  vigorous 
young  woman  of  sixty  odd,  who  always  looks  as 
if  she  were  beagling.} 

OLIVIA.  Aunt  Julia  wants  to  see  the  pigs,  dear.  I 
wish  you'd  take  her  down.  I'm  rather  tired,  and  your 
uncle  has  some  business  to  attend  to. 

LADY  HARDEN.  I've  always  said  that  you  don't  take 
enough  exercise,  Olivia.  Look  at  me — sixty-five  and 
proud  of  it. 

OLIVIA.  Yes,  Aunt  Julia,  you're  wonderful. 

DINAH.  How  old  would  Olivia  be  if  she  took  exercise  ? 


ACT  n]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  101 

GEORGE.  Don't  stand  about  asking  silly  questions, 
Dinah.  Your  aunt  hasn't  much  time. 

BRIAN.  May  I  come,  too,  Lady  Marden  ? 

LADY  MARDEN.  Well,  a  little  exercise  wouldn't  do^ow 
any  harm,  Mr.  Strange.  You're  an  artist,  ain't  you  ? 

BRIAN.  Well,  I  try  to  paint. 

DINAH.  He  sold  a  picture  last  March  for 

GEORGE.  Yes,  yes,  never  mind  that  now. 

LADY  MARDEN.  Unhealthy  life.     Well,  come  along. 

[She  strides  out,  followed  by  DINAH  and  BRIAN. 

(GEORGE  sits  down  at  his  desk  with  his  head  in  his 

hand,  and  slabs  the  blotting-paper  with  a  pen. 

OLIVIA  takes  the  curtains  with  her  to  the  sofa 

and  begins  to  work  on  them.") 

GEORGE  (looking  up  and  seeing  thein).  Really,  Olivia, 
we've  got  something  more  important,  more  vital  to  us 
than  curtains,  to  discuss,  now  that  we  are  alone  at  last. 

OLIVIA.  I  wasn't  going  to  discuss  them,  dear. 

GEORGE.  I'm  always  glad  to  see  Aunt  Julia  in  my 
house,  but  I  wish  she  hadn't  chosen  this  day  of  all  days 
to  come  to  lunch. 

OLIVIA.  It  wasn't  Aunt  Julia's  fault.  It  was  really 
Mr.  Pirn  who  chose  the  wrong  day. 

GEORGE  (fiercely).  Good  Heavens,  is  it  true  ? 

OLIVIA.  About  Jacob  Tel  worthy  ? 

GEORGE.  You  told  me  he  was  dead.  You  always  said 
that  he  was  dead.  You — you 

OLIVIA.  Well,  I  always  thought  that  he  was  dead.  He 
was  as  dead  as  anybody  could  be.  All  the  papers  said  he 
was  dead. 

GEORGE  (scornfully].  The  papers  ! 

OLIVIA  (as  if  this  would  settle  it  for  GEORGE).  The  Times 
said  he  was  dead.  There  was  a  paragraph  about  him. 
Apparently  even  his  death  was  fraudulent. 

GEORGE.  Yes,  yes,  I'm  not  blaming  you,  Olivia,  but 


102  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  n 

what  are  we  going  to  do,  that's  the  question,  what  are 
we  going  to  do  ?  My  God,  it's  horrible  !  You've  never 
been  married  to  me  at  all !  You  don't  seem  to  under- 
stand. 

OLIVIA.  It  is  a  little  difficult  to  realise.  You  see,  it 
doesn't  seem  to  have  made  any  difference  to  our 
happiness. 

GEORGE.  No,  that's  what's  so  terrible.  I  mean — well, 
of  course,  we  were  quite  innocent  in  the  matter.  But, 
at  the  same  time,  nothing  can  get  over  the  fact  that  we 
— we  had  no  right  to — to  be  happy. 

OLIVIA.  Would  you  rather  we  had  been  miserable  ? 

GEORGE.  You're  Telworthy's  wife,  that's  what  you 
don't  seem  to  understand.  You're  Telworthy's  wife. 
You — er— forgive  me,  Olivia,  but  it's  the  horrible  truth 
— you  committed  bigamy  when  you  married  me.  (In 
horror")  Bigamy  ! 

OLIVIA.  It  is  an  ugly  word,  isn't  it  ? 

GEORGE.  Yes,  but  don't  you   understand (He 

jumps  up  and  comes  over  to  her)  Look  here,  Olivia,  old 
girl,  the  whole  thing  is  nonsense,  eh  ?  It  isn't  your 
husband,  it's  some  other  Telworthy  that  this  fellow 
met.  That's  right,  isn't  it  ?  Some  other  shady  swindler 
who  turned  up  on  the  boat,  eh  ?  This  sort  of  thing 
doesn't  happen  to  people  like  us — committing  bigamy 
and  all  that.  Some  other  fellow. 

OLIVIA  (shaking  her  head).  I  knew  all  the  shady 
swindlers  in  Sydney,  George.  .  .  .  They  came  to 
dinner.  .  .  .  There  were  no  others  called  Telworthy. 

(GEORGE  goes  back  despondently  to  his  seat.) 

GEORGE.  Well,  what  are  we  going  to  do  ? 

OLIVIA.  You  sent  Mr.  Pirn  away  so  quickly.  He 
might  have  told  us  things.  Telworthy's  plans.  Where 
he  is  now.  You  hurried  him  away  so  quickly. 

GEORGE.  I've  sent  a  note  round  to  ask  him  to  come 


ACT  n]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  103 

back.  My  one  idea  at  the  moment  was  to  get  him  out 
of  the  house — to  hush  things  up. 

OLIVIA.  You  can't  hush  up  two  husbands. 

GEORGE  (in  despair).  You  can't.  Everybody  will 
know.  Everybody  ! 

OLIVIA.  The  children,  Aunt  Julia,  they  may  as  well 
know  now  as  later.  Mr.  Pirn  must,  of  course. 

GEORGE.  I  do  not  propose  to  discuss  my  private 
affairs  with  Mr.  Pirn 

OLIVIA.  But  he's  mixed  himself  up  in  them  rather, 
hasn't  he,  and  if  you're  going  to  ask  him  ques- 
tions  

GEORGE.  I  only  propose  to  ask  him  one  question.  I 
shall  ask  him  if  he  is  absolutely  certain  of  the  man's 
name.  I  can  do  that  quite  easily  without  letting  him 
know  the  reason  for  my  inquiry. 

OLIVIA.  You  couldn't  make  a  mistake  about  a  name 
like  Telvvorthy.  But  he  might  tell  us  something  about 
Telworthy's  plans.  Perhaps  he's  going  back  to  Australia 
at  once.  Perhaps  he  thinks  I'm  dead,  too.  Perhaps — 
oh,  there  are  so  many  things  I  want  to  know. 

GEORGE.  Yes,  yes,  dear.  It  would  be  interesting  to — 
that  is,  one  naturally  wants  to  know  these  things,  but 
of  course  it  doesn't  make  any  real  difference. 

OLIVIA  (surprised").  No  difference  ? 

GEORGE.  Well,  that  is  to  say,  you're  as  much  his  wife 
if  he's  in  Australia  as  you  are  if  he's  in  England. 

OLIVIA.  I  am  not  his  wife  at  all. 

GEORGE.  But,  Olivia,  surely  you  understand  the 
position 

OLIVIA  (shaking  her  head).  Jacob  Telworthy  may  be 
alive,  but  I  am  not  his  wife.  I  ceased  to  be  his  wife 
when  I  became  yours. 

GEORGE.  You  never  were  my  wife.  That  is  the  terrible 
part  of  it.  Our  union — you  make  me  say  it,  Olivia — 


101  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  a 

has  been  unhallowed  by  the  Church.  Unhallowed  even 
by  the  Law.  Legally,  we  have  been  living  in — living  in 
— well,  the  point  is,  how  does  the  Law  stand  ?  I 
imagine  that  Tel  worthy  could  get  a — a  divorce.  .  .  . 
Oh,  it  seems  impossible  that  things  like  this  can  be 
happening  to  us. 

OLIVIA  (joyfully').  A  divorce  ? 

GEORGE.  I — I  imagine  so. 

OLIVIA.  But  then  we  could  really  get  married,  and 
we  shouldn't  be  living  in — living  in — whatever  we  were 
living  in  before. 

GEORGE.  I  can't  understand  you,  Olivia.  You  talk 
about  it  so  calmly,  as  if  there  was  nothing  blameworthy 
in  being  divorced,  as  if  there  was  nothing  unusual  in 
my  marrying  a  divorced  woman,  as  if  there  was  nothing 
wrong  in  our  having  lived  together  for  years  without 
having  been  married. 

OLIVIA.  What  seems  wrong  to  me  is  that  I  lived  for 
five  years  with  a  bad  man  whom  I  hated.  What  seems 
right  to  me  is  that  I  lived  for  five  years  with  a  good 
man  whom  I  love. 

GEOIIGE.  Yes,  yes,  my  dear,  I  know.  But  right  and 
wrong  don't  settle  themselves  as  easily  as  that.  We've 
been  living  together  when  you  were  Tel  worthy's  wife. 
That's  wrong. 

OLIVIA.  Do  you  mean  wicked  ? 

GEORGE.  Well,  no  doubt  the  Court  would  consider 
that  we  acted  in  perfect  innocence 

OLIVIA.  What  Court  ? 

GEORGE.  These  things  have  to  be  done  legally,  of 
course.  I  believe  the  proper  method  is  a  nullity  suit, 
declaring  our  marriage  null  and — er — void.  It  would, 
so  to  speak,  wipe  out  these  years  of — er 

OLIVIA.  Wickedness  ? 

GEORGE.  Of  irregular  union,  and — er — then 


ACT  ii]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  105 

OLIVIA.  Then  I  could  go  back  to  Jacob.  .  .  .  Do  you 
really  mean  that,  George  ? 

GEORGE  (uneasily).  Well,  dear,  you  see — that's  how 
things  are — one  can't  get  away  from — er 

OLIVIA.  What  you  feel  is  that  Telworthy  has  the 
greater  claim  ?  You  are  prepared  to — make  way  for 
him  ? 

GEORGE.  Both  the  Church  and  the  Law  would  say 
that  I  had  no  claim  at  all,  I'm  afraid.  I — I  suppose  I 
haven't. 

OLIVIA.  I  see.  (She  looks  at  him  curiously)  Thank  you 
for  making  it  so  clear,  George. 

GEORGE.  Of  course,  whether  or  not  you  go  back  to 
— er — Telworthy  is  another  matter  altogether.  That 
would  naturally  be  for  you  to  decide. 

OLIVIA  (cheerfully).  For  me  and  Jacko  to  decide. 

GEORGE.  Er — Jacko  ? 

OLIVIA.  I  used  to  call  my  first  husband — I  mean  my 
only  husband — Jacko.  I  didn't  like  the  name  of  Jacob, 
and  Jacko  seemed  to  suit  him  somehow.  .  .  .  He  had 
very  long  arms.  Dear  Jacko. 

GEORGE  (annoyed).  You  don't  seem  to  realise  that  this 
is  not  a  joke,  Olivia. 

OLIVIA  (a  trifle  hysterically).  It  may  not  be  a  joke,  but 
it  is  funny,  isn't  it  ? 

GEORGE.  I  must  say  I  don't  see  anything  funny  in  a 
tragedy  that  has  wrecked  two  lives. 

OLIVIA.  Two  ?  Oh,  but  Jacko 's  life  isn't  wrecked.  It 
has  just  been  miraculously  restored  to  him.  And  a  wife, 
too.  There's  nothing  tragic  for  Jacko  in  it. 

GEORGE  (stiffly).  I  was  referring  to  our  two  lives — 
yours  and  mine. 

OLIVIA.  Yours,  George  ?  Your  life  isn't  wrecked. 
The  Court  will  absolve  you  of  all  blame  ;  your  friends 
will  sympathise  with  you,  and  tell  you  that  I  was  a 


106  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  n 

designing  woman  who  deliberately  took  you  in  ;   your 
Aunt  Julia 

GEORGE  (overwrought).  Stop  it !  What  do  you  mean  ? 
Have  you  no  heart  ?  Do  you  think  I  want  to  lose  you, 
Olivia  ?  Do  you  think  I  want  my  home  broken  up  like 
this  ?  Haven't  you  been  happy  with  me  these  last  five 
years  ? 

OLIVIA.  Very  happy. 

GEORGE.  Well  then,  how  can  you  talk  like  that  ? 

OLIVIA  (pathetically).  But  you  want  to  send  me  away. 

GEORGE.  There  you  go  again.  I  don't  want  to.  I 
have  hardly  had  time  to  realise  just  what  it  will  mean  to 
me  when  you  go.  The  fact  is  I  simply  daren't  realise 
it.  I  daren't  think  about  it. 

OLIVIA  (earnestly).  Try  thinking  about  it,  George. 

GEORGE.  And  you  talk  as  if  I  wanted  to  send  you  away  ! 

OLIVIA.  Try  thinking  about  it,  George. 

GEORGE.  You  don't  seem  to  understand  that  I'm  not 
sending  you  away.  You  simply  aren't  mine  to  keep. 

OLIVIA.  Whose  am  I  ? 

GEORGE.  Your  husband's.     Tel  worthy's. 

OLIVIA  (gently'].  If  I  belong  to  anybody  but  myself, 
I  think  I  belong  to  you. 

GEORGE.  Not  in  the  eyes  of  the  Law.  Not  in  the 
eyes  of  the  Church.  Not  even  in  the  eyes  of — er 

OLIVIA.  The  County  ? 

GEORGE  (annoyed).  I  was  about  to  say  "  Heaven." 

OLIVIA  (unimpressed).  Oh  ! 

GEORGE.  That  this  should  happen  to  us  ! 

(He  gets  up  and  walks  about  the  room,  wondering 
when  he  will  wake  up  from  this  impossible 
dream.  OLIVIA  works  in  silence.  Then  she 
stands  up  and  shakes  out  her  curtains?) 

OLIVIA  (looking  at  them}.  I  do  hope  Jacko  will  like 
these. 


ACT  n]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  107 

OEOROE.  What  !     You (Going  up  to  her)  Olivia, 

Olivia,  have  you  no  heart  ? 

OLIVIA.  Ought  you  to  talk  like  that  to  another  man's 
wife  ? 

GEORGE.  Confound  it,  is  this  just  a  joke  to  you  ? 

OLIVIA.  You  must  forgive  me,  George  ;  I  am  a  little 
over-excited — at  the  thought  of  returning  to  Jacob,  I 
suppose. 

GEORGE.  Do  you  want  to  return  to  him  ? 

OLIVIA.  One  wants  to  do  what  is  right.  In  the  eyes 
of — er — Heaven . 

GEORGE.  Seeing  what  sort  of  man  he  is,  I  have  no 
doubt  that  you  could  get  a  separation,  supposing  that 
he  didn't — er — divorce  you.  I  don't  know  what  is  best. 
I  must  consult  my  solicitor.  The  whole  position  has 
been  sprung  on  us,  and — (miserably)  I  don't  know,  I 
don't  know.  I  can't  take  it  all  in. 

OLIVIA.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  consult  your  Aunt  Julia 
too  ?  She  could  tell  you  what  the  County — I  mean 
what  Heaven  really  thought  about  it. 

GEORGE.  Yes,  yes.  Aunt  Julia  has  plenty  of  common 
sense.  You're  quite  right,  Olivia.  This  isn't  a  thing  we 
can  keep  from  the  family. 

OLIVIA.  Do  I  still  call  her  Aunt  Julia  ? 

GEORGE  (looking  up  from  his  pacings).  What  ?  What  ? 
(ANNE  comes  in.}  Well,  what  is  it  ? 

ANNE.  Mr.  Pirn  says  he  will  come  down  at  once,  sir. 

GEORGE.  Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you. 

[ANNE  goes  out. 

OLIVIA.  George,  Mr.  Pirn  has  got  to  know. 

GEORGE.  I  don't  see  the  necessity. 

OLIVIA.  Not  even  for  me  ?  When  a  woman  suddenly 
hears  that  her  long-lost  husband  is  restored  to  her,  don't 
you  think  she  wants  to  ask  questions  ?  WTiere  is  he 
living,  and  how  is  he  looking,  and 


108  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  u 

GEORGE  (coldly}.  Of  course,  if  you  are  interested  in 
these  things — 

OLIVIA.  How  can  I  help  being  ?  Don't  be  so  silly, 
George.  We  must  know  what  Jacko — 

GEORGE  (annoyed).  I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  him  by 
that  ridiculous  name. 

OLIVIA.  My  husband 

GEORGE  (wincing).  Yes,  well — your  husband  ? 

OLIVIA.  Well,  we  must  know  his  plans — where  we  can 
communicate  with  him,  and  so  on. 

GEORGE.  I  have  no  wish  to  communicate  with  him. 

OLIVIA.  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to,  dear. 

GEORGE.  I  don't  see  the  necessity. 

OLIVIA.  Well,  you'll  want  to — to  apologise  to  him  for 
living  with  his  wife  for  so  long.  And  as  I  belong  to 
him,  he  ought  to  be  told  where  he  can — call  for 
me. 

GEORGE  (after  a  struggle).  You  put  it  in  a  very  peculiar 
way,  but  I  see  your  point.  (With  a  shudder)  Oh,  the 
horrible  publicity  of  it  all  ! 

OLIVIA  (going  up  to  him  and  comforting  him).  Poor 
George.  Dear,  don't  think  I  don't  sympathise  with 
you.  I  understand  so  exactly  what  you  are  feeling. 
The  publicity  !  It's  terrible. 

GEORGE  (miserably').  I  want  to  do  what's  right,  Olivia. 
You  believe  that  ? 

OLIVIA.  Of  course  I  do.  It's  only  that  we  don't 
quite  agree  as  to  what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong. 

GEORGE.  It  isn't  a  question  of  agreeing.  Right  is 
right,  and  wrong  is  wrong,  all  the  world  over. 

OLIVIA  (with  a  sad  little  smile).  But  more  particularly 
in  Buckinghamshire,  I  think. 

GEORGE.  If  I  only  considered  myself,  I  should  say  : 
"  Let  us  pack  this  man  Telworthy  back  to  Australia. 
He  would  make  no  claim.  He  would  accept  money  to 


ACT  n]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  109 

go  away  and  say  nothing  about  it."  If  I  consulted 
simply  my  own  happiness,  Olivia,  that  is  what  I  should 
say.  But  when  I  consult — er 

OLIVIA  (surprised).  Mine  ? 

GEORGE.  My  conscience 

OLIVIA.  Oh  ! 

GEORGE.  Then  I  can't  do  it.  It's  wrong.  (He  is  at 
the  window  as  he  says  this.) 

OLIVIA  (making  her  first  and  last  appeal).  George,  aren't 
I  worth  a  little 

GEORGE  (turning  round).  H'sh  !     Dinah  !     (Loudly  for 

DINAH'S  benefit)  Well,  then   I'll  write  to  him   and 

Ah,  Dinah,  where 's  Aunt  Julia  ? 

DINAH  (coming  in).  We've  seen  the  pigs,  and  now 
she's  discussing  the  Art  of  Landseer  with  Brian.  I  just 
came  to  ask 

OLIVIA.  Dinah,  dear,  bring  Aunt  Julia  here.  And 
Brian  too.  We  have  things  we  want  to  talk  about 
with  you  all. 

GEORGE  (outraged).  Olivia  ! 

DINAH.  Righto.    What  fun  ! 

[Exit  DINAH. 

GEORGE.  Olivia,  you  don't  seriously  suggest  that  we 
should  discuss  these  things  with  a  child  like  Dinah  and 
a  young  man  like  Strange,  a  mere  acquaintance. 

OLIVIA.  Dinah  will  have  to  know.  I'm  very  fond 
of  her,  George.  You  can't  send  me  away  without 
telling  Dinah.  And  Brian  is  my  friend.  You  have  your 
solicitor  and  your  aunt  and  your  conscience  to  consult 
— mayn't  I  even  have  Brian  ? 

GEORGE  (forgetting).  I  should  have  thought  that  your 
husband 

OLIVIA.  Yes,  but  we  don't  know  where  Jacko  is. 

GEORGE.  I  was  not  referring  to — er — Telworthy. 

OLIVIA.  Well  then  ? 


110  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  n 

GEORGE.  Well,    naturally    I — you    mustn't Oh, 

this  is  horrible  ! 

(He  comes  back  to  his  desk  as  the  others  come  in.) 

OLIVIA  (getting  up).  George  and  I  have  had  some 
rather  bad  news,  Aunt  Julia.  We  wanted  your  advice. 
Where  will  you  sit  ? 

LADY  HARDEN.  Thank  you,  Olivia.  I  can  sit  down  by 
myself.  (She  does  so,  near  GEORGE.  DINAH  sits  on  the 
sofa  with  OLIVIA,  and  BRIAN  half  leans  against  the  back 
of  it.  There  is  a  hush  of  expectation.  .  .  .)  What  is  it  ? 
Money,  I  suppose.  Nobody's  safe  nowadays. 

GEORGE  (signalling  for  help).  Olivia 

OLIVIA.  We've  just  heard  that  my  first  husband  is 
still  alive. 

DINAH.  Tel  worthy  ! 

BRIAN.  Good  Lord  ! 

LADY  MARDEN.    George  ! 

DINAH  (excitedly).  And  only  this  morning  I  was  saying 
that  nothing  ever  happened  in  this  house  !  (Remorse- 
fully to  OLIVIA)  Darling,  I  don't  mean  that.  Darling 
one  ! 

LADY  HARDEN.  What  does  this  mean,  George  ?  I 
leave  you  for  ten  minutes — barely  ten  minutes — -to  go 
and  look  at  the  pigs,  and  when  I  come  back  you  tell 
me  that  Olivia  is  a  bigamist. 

BRIAN  (indignantly).  I  say 

OLIVIA  (restraining  him).  H'sh  ! 

BRIAN  (to  OLIVIA).  If  this  is  a  row,  I'm  on  your  side. 

LADY  HARDEN.  Well,  George  ? 

GEORGE.  I'm  afraid  it's  true,  Aunt  Julia.  We  heard 
the  news  just  before  lunch — just  before  you  came. 
We've  only  this  moment  had  an  opportunity  of  talking 
about  it,  of  wondering  what  to  do. 

LADY  HARDEN.  What  was  his  name — Tel — some- 
thing  


ACTII]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  ill 

OLIVIA.  Jacob  Telworthy. 

LADY  HARDEN.    So  he's  alive  Still  ? 

GEORGE.  Apparently.  There  seems  to  be  no  doubt 
about  it. 

LADY  MARDEN  (to  OLIVIA).  Didn't  you  see  him  die  ?  I 
should  always  want  to  see  my  husband  die  before  I 
married  again.  Not  that  I  approve  of  second  mar- 
riages, anyhow.  I  told  you  so  at  the  time,  George. 

OLIVIA.  And  me,  Aunt  Julia. 

LADY  MARDEN.  Did  I  ?  Well,  I  generally  say  what 
I  think. 

GEORGE.  I  ought  to  tell  you,  Aunt  Julia,  that  no 
blame  attaches  to  Olivia  over  this.  Of  that  I  am  per- 
fectly satisfied.  It's  nobody's  fault,  except 

LADY  MARDEN.  Except  Telworthy's.  He  seems  to  have 
been  rather  careless.  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do 
about  it  ? 

GEORGE.  That's  just  it.  It's  a  terrible  situation. 
There's  bound  to  be  so  much  publicity.  Not  only  all 
this,  but— but  Telworthy's  past  and — and  everything. 

LADY  MARDEN.  I  should  have  said  that  it  was  Tel- 
worthy's present  which  was  the  trouble.  Had  he  a 
past  as  well  ? 

OLIVIA.  He  was  a  fraudulent  company  promoter.  He 
went  to  prison  a  good  deal. 

LADY  MARDEN.  George,  you  never  told  me  this  ! 

GEORGE.    I Or 

OLIVIA.  I  don't  see  why  he  should  want  to  talk 
about  it. 

DINAH  (indignantly).  What's  it  got  to  do  with  Olivia, 
anyhow  ?  It's  not  her  fault. 

LADY  MARDEN  (sarcastically').  Oh  no,  I  daresay  it's 
mine. 

OLIVIA  (to  GEORGE).  You  wanted  to  ask  Aunt  Julia 
what  was  the  right  thing  to  do. 


112  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  n 

BRIAN  (bursting  ouf).  Good  Heavens,  what  is  there  to 
do  except  the  one  and  only  thing  ?  (They  all  look  at 
him  and  he  becomes  embarrassed)  I'm  sorry.  You  don't 
want  me  to 

OLIVIA.  /  do,  Brian. 

LADY  MARDEN.  Well,  go  on,  Mr.  Strange.  What 
would  you  do  in  George's  position  ? 

BRIAN.  Do  ?  Say  to  the  woman  I  loved,  "  You're 
mine,  and  let  this  other  damned  fellow  come  and  take 
you  from  me  if  he  can  !  "  And  he  couldn't — how 
could  he  ? — not  if  the  woman  chose  me. 

(LADY  HARDEN  gazes  at  BRIAN  in  amazement, 
GEORGE  in  anger.  OLIVIA  presses  his  hand 
gratefully.  He  has  said  what  she  has  been 
waiting — oh,  so  eagerly— for  GEORGE  to  say.) 

DINAH  (adoringly).  Oh,  Brian  !  (In  a  whisper)  It  is 
me,  isn't  it,  and  not  Olivia  ? 

BRIAN.  You  baby,  of  course  ! 

LADY  MARDEN.  I'm  afraid,  Mr.  Strange,  your  morals 
are  as  peculiar  as  your  views  on  Art.  If  you  had  led  a 
more  healthy  life 

BRIAN.  This  is  not  a  question  of  morals  or  of  art,  it's 
a  question  of  love. 

DINAH.  Hear,  hear  ! 

LADY  HARDEN  (to  GEORGE).  Isn't  it  that  girl's  bed- 
time yet  ? 

OLIVIA  (to  DINAH).  We'll  let  her  sit  up  a  little  longer 
if  she's  good. 

DINAH.  I  will  be  good,  Olivia,  only  I  thought  anybody, 
however  important  a  debate  was,  was  allowed  to  say 
"  Hear,  hear  !  " 

GEORGE  (coldly).  I  really  think  we  could  discuss  this 
better  if  Mr.  Strange  took  Dinah  out  for  a  walk. 
Strange,  if  you — er — 

OLIVIA.  Tell  them  what  you  have  settled  first,  George. 


ACTII]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  113 

LADY  MARDEN.  Settled  ?  What  is  there  to  be  settled  ? 
It  settles  itself. 

GEORGE  (sadly).  That's  just  it. 

LADY  MARDEN.  The  marriage  must  be  annulled — is 
that  the  word,  George  ? 

GEORGE.  I  presume  so. 

LADY  MARDEN.  One's  solicitor  will  know  all  about  that 
of  course. 

BRIAN.  And  when  the  marriage  has  been  annulled, 
what  then  ? 

LADY  MARDEN.  Presumably  Olivia  will  return  to  her 
husband. 

BRIAN  (bitterly).  And  that's  morality  !  As  expounded 
by  Bishop  Lands  eer  ! 

GEORGE  (angered).  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by 
Bishop  Landseer.  Morality  is  acting  in  accordance  with 
the  Laws  of  the  Land  and  the  Laws  of  the  Church.  I 
am  quite  prepared  to  believe  that  your  creed  embraces 
neither  marriage  nor  monogamy,  but  my  creed  is 
different. 

BRIAN  (fiercely).  My  creed  includes  both  marriage 
and  monogamy,  and  monogamy  means  sticking  to  the 
woman  you  love,  as  long  as  she  wants  you. 

LADY  HARDEN  (calmly).  You  suggest  that  George 
and  Olivia  should  go  on  living  together,  although 
they  have  never  been  legally  married,  and  wait 
for  this  Telworthy  man  to  divorce  her,  and  then — 
bless  the  man,  what  do  you  think  the  County  would 
say  ? 

BRIAN  (scornfully].  Does  it  matter  ? 

DINAH.  Well,  if  you  really  want  to  know,  the  men 
would  say,  "  Gad,  she's  a  fine  woman  ;  I  don't  wonder 
he  sticks  to  her,"  and  the  women  would  say,  "  I  can't 
think  what  he  sees  in  her  to  stick  to  her  like  that,"  and 
they'd  both  say,  "  After  all,  he  may  be  a  damn  fool,  but 

I 


114  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  n 

you  can't  deny  he's  a  sportsman."     That's  what  the 
County  would  say. 

GEORGE  (indignantly).  Was  it  for  this  sort  of  thing, 
Olivia,  that  you  insisted  on  having  Dinah  and  Mr. 
Strange  in  here  ?  To  insult  me  in  my  own  house  ? 

LADY  MARDEN.  I  can't  think  what  young  people  are 
coming  to  nowadays. 

OLIVIA.  I  think,  dear,  you  and  Brian  had  better  go. 

DINAH  (getting  up).  We  will  go.  But  I'm  just  going 
to  say  one  thing,  Uncle  George.  Brian  and  I  are  going 
to  marry  each  other,  and  when  we  are  married  we'll 
stick  to  each  other,  however  many  of  our  dead  husbands 
and  wives  turn  up  ! 

[She  goes  out  indignantly ,  followed  by  BRIAN. 

GEORGE.  Upon  my  word,  this  is  a  pleasant  discussion. 

OLIVIA.  I  think  the  discussion  is  over,  George.  It  is 
only  a  question  of  where  I  shall  go,  while  you  are 
bringing  your — what  sort  of  suit  did  you  call  it  ? 

LADY  HARDEN  (to  GEORGE).    Nullity  Suit.     I  Suppose  that 

is  the  best  thing  ? 

GEORGE.  It's  horrible.  The  awful  publicity.  That  it 
should  be  happening  to  us,  that's  what  I  can't  get  over. 

LADY  HARDEN.  I  don't  remember  anything  of  the  sort 
in  the  Marden  Family  before,  ever. 

GEORGE  (absently").  Lady  Fanny. 

LADY  HARDEN  (recollecting').  Yes,  of  course  ;  but  that 
was  two  hundred  years  ago.  The  standards  were  differ- 
ent then.  Besides,  it  wasn't  quite  the  same,  anyhow. 

GEORGE  (absently).  No,  it  wasn't  quite  the  same. 

LADY  HARDEN.  No.     We  shall  all  feel  it.     Terribly. 

GEORGE  (his  apology).  If  there  were  any  other  way ! 
Olivia,  what  can  I  do  ?  It  is  the  only  way,  isn't  it  ? 
All  that  that  fellow  said — of  course,  it  sounds  very  well 
— but  as  things  are.  .  .  .  Is  there  anything  in  marriage, 
or  isn't  there  ?  You  believe  that  there  is,  don't  you  ? 


ACT  n]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  115 

You  aren't  one  of  these  Socialists.  Well,  then,  can  we 
go  on  living  together  when  you're  another  man's 
wife  ?  It  isn't  only  what  people  will  say,  but  it  is 
wrong,  isn't  it  ?  ...  And  supposing  he  doesn't  divorce 
you,  are  we  to  go  on  living  together,  unmarried,  for 
ever  ?  Olivia,  you  seem  to  think  that  I'm  just  thinking 
of  the  publicity — what  people  will  say.  I'm  not.  I'm  not. 
That  comes  in  any  way.  But  I  want  to  do  what's  right, 
what's  best.  I  don't  mean  what's  best  for  us,  what 
makes  us  happiest,  I  mean  what's  really  best,  what's 
Tightest.  What  anybody  else  would  do  in  my  place.  / 
don't  know.  It's  so  unfair.  You're  not  rny  wife  at  all, 
but  I  want  to  do  what's  right.  .  .  .  Oh,  Olivia,  Olivia, 
you  do  understand,  don't  you  ? 

(They  have  both  forgotten  LADY  MARDEN.  OLIVIA 
has  never  taken  her  eyes  off  him  as  he  makes 
his  last  attempt  to  convince  himself?) 

OLIVIA  (almost  tenderly}.  So  very  very  well,  George. 
Oh,  I  understand  just  what  you  are  feeling.  And  oh, 
I  do  so  wish  that  you  could — (with  a  little  sigh) — but  then 
it  wouldn't  be  George,  not  the  George  I  married — (with 
a  rueful  little  laugh) — or  didn't  quite  marry. 

LADY  MARDEN.  I  must  say,  I  think  you  are  both 
talking  a  little  wildly. 

OLIVIA  (repeating  it,  oh,  so  tenderly].  Or  didn't — quite 
— marry.  (She  looks  at  him  with  all  her  heart  in  her  eyes. 
She  is  giving  him  his  last  chance  to  say  "  Damn  Telworthy  ; 
you're  mine ! "  He  struggles  desperately  with  himself. 
.  .  .  Will  he  ? — will  he  ?  .  .  .  But  we  shall  never  know, 
for  at  that  moment  ANNE  comes  in.) 

ANNE.  Mr.  Pirn  is  here,  sir. 

GEORGE  (emerging  from  the  struggle  with  an  effort}. 
Pirn?  Pirn?  Oh,  ah,  yes,  of  course.  Mr.  Pirn.  (Looking 
up)  Where  have  you  put  him  ? 

OLIVIA.  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Pirn,  too,  George. 


116  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  n 

LADY  MARDEN.  Who  on  earth  is  Mr.  Pirn  ? 

OLIVIA.  Show  him  in  here,  Anne. 

ANNE.  Yes,  madam.  [She  goes  out. 

OLIVIA.  It  was  Mr.  Pirn  who  told  us  about  my 
husband.  He  came  across  with  him  in  the  boat,  and 
recognised  him  as  the  Telworthy  he  knew  in  Australia. 

LADY  HARDEN.  Oh  !    Shall  I  be  in  the  way  ? 

GEORGE.  No,  no.    It  doesn't  matter,  does  it,  Olivia  ? 

OLIVIA.  Please  stay. 

ANNE  enters  followed  by  MR.  PIM. 

ANNE.  Mr.  Pirn. 

GEORGE  (pulling  himself  together).  Ah,  Mr.  Pim  !  Very 

good  of  you  to  have  come.  The  fact  is — er (It  is 

too  much  for  him  ;  he  looks  despairingly  at  OLIVIA.) 

OLIVIA.  We're  so  sorry  to  trouble  you,  Mr.  Pim.  By 
the  way,  do  you  know  Lady  Marden  ?  (MR.  PIM  and 
LADY  MARDEN  bow  to  each  other.]  Do  come  and  sit  down, 
won't  you  ?  (She  makes  room  for  him  on  the  sofa  next  to 
her)  The  fact  is,  Mr.  Pim,  you  gave  us  rather  a  surprise 
this  morning,  and  before  we  had  time  to  realise  what 
it  all  meant,  you  had  gone. 

MR.  PIM.  A  surprise,  Mrs.  Marden  ?  Dear  me,  not 
an  unpleasant  one,  I  hope  ? 

OLIVIA.  Well,  rather  a — surprising  one. 

GEORGE.  Olivia,  allow  me  a  moment.  Mr.  Pim,  you 
mentioned  a  man  called  Telworthy  this  morning.  My 
wife  used  to — that  is  to  say,  I  used  to — that  is,  there 
are  reasons 

OLIVIA.  I  think  we  had  better  be  perfectly  frank, 
George. 

LADY  MARDEN.  I  am  sixty-five  years  of  age,  Mr.  Pim, 
and  I  can  say  that  I've  never  had  a  moment's  uneasiness 
by  telling  the  truth. 

MR.  PIM  (after  a  desperate  effort  to  keep  up  with  the 


ACTII]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  117 

conversation).  Oh  !  .  .  .  I — er — I'm  afraid  I  am  rather 
at  sea.  Have  I — er — left  anything  unsaid  in  presenting 
my  credentials  to  you  this  morning  ?  This  Telworthy 
whom  you  mention — I  seem  to  remember  the  name 

OLIVIA.  Mr.  Pirn,  you  told  us  this  morning  of  a  man 
whom  you  had  met  on  the  boat,  a  man  who  had  come 
down  in  the  world,  whom  you  had  known  in  Sydney. 
A  man  called  Telworthy. 

MR.  PIM  (relieved).  Ah  yes,  yes,  of  course.  I  did  say 
Telworthy,  didn't  I  ?  Most  curious  coincidence,  Lady 
Marden.  Poor  man,  poor  man  !  Let  me  see,  it  must 
have  been  ten  years  ago 

GEORGE.  Just  a  moment,  Mr.  Pirn.  You're  quite  sure 
that  his  name  was  Telworthy  ? 

MR.  PIM.  Telworthy — Telworthy — didn't  I  say  Tel- 
worthy ?  Yes,  that  was  it — Telworthy.  Poor  fellow  ! 

OLIVIA.  I'm  going  to  be  perfectly  frank  with  you, 
Mr.  Pirn.  I  feel  quite  sure  that  I  can  trust  you.  This 
man  Telworthy  whom  you  met  is  my  husband. 

MR.  PIM.  Your  husband  ?  (He  looks  in  mild  surprise  at 
GEORGE.)  But — er 

OLIVIA.  My  first  husband.  His  death  was  announced 
six  years  ago.  I  had  left  him  some  years  before  that, 
but  there  seems  no  doubt  from  your  story  that  he's  still 
alive.  His  record — the  country  he  comes  from — above 
all,  the  very  unusual  name — Telworthy. 

MR.  PIM.  Telworthy — yes — certainly  a  most  peculiar 
name.  I  remember  saying  so.  Your  first  husband  ? 
Dear  me  !  Dear  me  ! 

GEORGE.  You  understand,  Mr.  Pirn,  that  all  this  is  in 
absolute  confidence. 

MR.  PIM.  Of  course,  of  course. 

OLIVIA.  Well,  since  he  is  my  husband,  we  naturally 
want  to  know  something  about  him.  Where  is  he  now, 
for  instance  ? 


118  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  n 

MR.  PIM  (surprised).  Where  is  he  now  ?  But  surely  I 
told  you  ?  I  told  you  what  happened  at  Marseilles  ? 

GEORGE.  At  Marseilles  ? 

MR.  PIM.  Yes,  yes,  poor  fellow,  it  was  most  unfortu- 
nate. (Quite  happy  again)  You  must  understand,  Lady 
Marden,  that  although  I  had  met  the  poor  fellow  before 
in  Australia,  I  was  never  in  any  way  intimate 

GEORGE  (thumping  the  desk).  Where  is  he  now,  that's 
what  we  want  to  know  ? 

(MR.  PIM  turns  to  him  with  a  start.) 

OLIVIA.  Please,  Mr.  Pirn  ! 

PIM.  Where  is  he  now  ?  But — but  didn't  I  tell  you 
of  the  curious  fatality  at  Marseilles — poor  fellow — the 
fish-bone  ? 

ALL.  Fish-bone  ? 

MR.  PIM.  Yes,  yes,  a  herring,  I  understand. 

OLIVIA  (understanding  first).  Do  you  mean  he's  dead  ? 

MR.  PIM.  Dead — of  course — didn't  I ? 

OLIVIA   (laughing   hysterically).  Oh,    Mr.   Pirn,  you — 

oh,  what  a  husband  to  have — oh,  I (But  that  is 

all  she  can  say  for  the  moment?) 

LADY  MARDEN.  Pull  yourself  together,  Olivia.  This  is 
so  unhealthy  for  you.  (To  PIM)  So  he  really  is  dead 
this  time  ? 

MR.  PIM.  Oh,  undoubtedly,  undoubtedly.  A  fish- 
bone lodged  in  his  throat. 

GEORGE  (trying  to  realise  it).  Dead  ! 

OLIVIA  (struggling  with  her  laughter).  I  think  you  must 
excuse  me,  Mr.  Pirn — I  can  never  thank  you  enough — 
a  herring — there's  something  about  a  herring — morality 
depends  on  such  little  things — George,  you —  (Shak- 
ing her  head  at  him  in  a  weak  state  of  laughter,  she  hurries 
out  of  the  room?) 

MR.  PIM.  Dear  me  !     Dear  me  ! 

GEORGE.  Now,  let  us  have  this  quite  clear,  Mr.  Pirn. 


ACTII]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  119 

You  say  that  the  man,  Telworthy,  Jacob  Telworthy,  is 
dead  ? 

MR.  PIM.  Telworthy,  yes — didn't  I  say  Telworthy  ? 
This  man  I  was  telling  you  about 

GEORGE.  He's  dead  ? 

MR.  PIM.  Yes,  yes,  he  died  at  Marseilles. 

LADY  MARDEN.  A  dispensation  of  Providence,  George. 
One  can  look  at  it  in  no  other  light. 

GEORGE.  Dead  !  (Suddenly  annoyed)  Really,  Mr.  Pirn, 
I  think  you  might  have  told  us  before. 

MR.  PIM.  But  I — I  was  telling  you — I 

GEORGE.  If  you  had  only  told  us  the  whole  story  at 
once,  instead  of  in  two — two  instalments  like  this,  you 
would  have  saved  us  all  a  good  deal  of  anxiety. 

MR.  PIM.  Really,  I 

LADY  MARDEN.  I  am  sure  Mr.  Pirn  meant  well,  George, 
but  it  seems  a  pity  he  couldn't  have  said  so  before.  If 
the  man  was  dead,  why  try  to  hush  it  up  ? 

MR.  PIM  (lost  again).  Really,  Lady  Marden,  I 

GEORGE  (getting  up).  Well,  well,  at  any  rate,  I  am 
much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Pirn,  for  having  come  down 
to  us  this  afternoon.  Dead  !  De  mortuis,  and  so  forth, 
but  the  situation  would  have  been  impossible  had 
he  lived.  Good-bye  !  (Holding  out  his  hand)  Good- 
bye ! 

LADY  MARDEN.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Pirn. 

MR.  PIM.  Good-bye,  good-bye  !  (GEORGE  takes  him  to 
the  door.)  Of  course,  if  I  had — (to  himself)  Telworthy 
—  I  think  that  was  the  name.  (He  goes  out,  still 
wondering.) 

GEORGE  (with  a  sigh  of  thankfulness).  Well !  This  is 
wonderful  news,  Aunt  Julia. 

LADY  MARDEN.  Most  providential  !  .  .  .  You  under- 
stand, of  course,  that  you  are  not  married  to  Olivia  ? 

GEORGE  (who  didn't").  Not  married  ? 


120  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  n 

LADY  MARDEN.  If  her  first  husband  only  died  at 
Marseilles  a  few  days  ago 

GEORGE.  Good  Heavens  ! 

LADY  MARDEN.  Not  that  it  matters.  You  can  get 
married  quietly  again.  Nobody  need  know. 

GEORGE  (considering  if).  Yes  .  .  .  yes.  Then  all  these 
years  we  have  been — er Yes. 

LADY  HARDEN.  Who's  going  to  know  ? 

GEORGE.  Yes,  yes,  that's  true.  .  .  .  And  in  perfect 
innocence,  too. 

LADY  MARDEN.  I  should  suggest  a  Registry  Office  in 
London. 

GEORGE.  A  Registry  Office,  yes. 

LADY  MARDEN.  Better  go  up  to  town  this  afternoon. 
Can't  do  it  too  quickly. 

GEORGE.  Yes,  yes.     We  can  stay  at  an  hotel 

LADY  MARDEN  (surprised).  George  1 

GEORGE.  What  ? 

LADY  MARDEN.  You  will  stay  at  your  club. 

GEORGE.  Oh — ah — yes,  of  course,  Aunt  Julia. 

LADY  MARDEN.  Better  take  your  solicitor  with  you  to 
be  on  the  safe  side.  ...  To  the  Registry  Office,  I  mean. 

GEORGE.  Yes. 

LADY  MARDEN  (getting  up).  Well,  I  must  be  getting 
along,  George.  Say  good-bye  to  Olivia  for  me.  And 
those  children.  Of  course,  you  won't  allow  this  absurd 
love-business  between  them  to  come  to  anything  ? 

GEORGE.  Most  certainly  not.  Good  -  bye,  Aunt 
Julia  ! 

LADY  MARDEN  (indicating  the  windows).  I'll  go  this  way. 
(As  she  goes)  And  get  Olivia  out  more,  George.  I 
don't  like  these  hysterics.  You  want  to  be  firm  with 
her. 

GEORGE  (firmly).  Yes,  yes  !     Good-bye  ! 

(lie  waves  to  her  and  then  goes  back  to  his  seat.) 


ACT  n]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  121 

(OLIVIA    comes   in,    and   stands   in    the   middle   of 
the  room  looking  at   him.      He  comes  to  her 
eagerly) 
GEORGE  (holding  out  his  hands}.  Olivia  !  Olivia  ! 

(But  it  is  not  so  easy  as  that) 
OLIVIA  (drawing  herself  up  proudly).  Mrs.  Tel  worthy  ! 


ACT  III 

OLIVIA  is  standing  where  rve  left  her  at  the  end  of 
the  last  act. 

GEORGE  (taken  aback}.  Olivia,  I — I  don't  understand. 

OLIVIA  (leaving  melodrama  with  a  little  laugh  and  coming 
down  to  him).  Poor  George  !  Did  I  frighten  you  rather  ? 

GEORGE.  You're  so  strange  to-day.  I  don't  under- 
stand you.  You're  not  like  the  Olivia  I  know. 

{They  sit  down  on  the  sofa  together?) 

OLIVIA.  Perhaps  you  don't  know  me  very  well  after 
all. 

GEORGE  (affectionately}.  Oh,  that's  nonsense,  old  girl. 
You're  just  my  Olivia. 

OLIVIA.  And  yet  it  seemed  as  though  I  wasn't  going 
to  be  your  Olivia  half  an  hour  ago. 

GEORGE  (with  a  shudder}.  Don't  talk  about  it.  It 
doesn't  bear  thinking  about.  Well,  thank  Heaven 
that's  over.  Now  we  can  get  married  again  quietly 
and  nobody  will  be  any  the  wiser. 

OLIVIA.  Married  again  ? 

GEORGE.  Yes,  dear.  As  you — er — (he  laughs  uneasily) 
said  just  now,  you  are  Mrs.  Telworthy.  Just  for  the 
moment.  But  we  can  soon  put  that  right.  My  idea 
was  to  go  up  this  evening  and— er — make  arrangements, 
and  if  you  come  up  to-morrow  morning,  if  we  can 
manage  it  by  then,  we  could  get  quietly  married  at  a 
Registry  Office,  and — er — nobody  any  the  wiser. 
122 


ACT  in]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  123 

OLIVIA.  Yes,  I  see.  You  want  me  to  marry  you  at  a 
Registry  Office  to-morrow  ? 

GEORGE.  If  we  can  arrange  it  by  then.  I  don't  know 
how  long  these  things  take,  but  I  should  imagine  there 
would  be  no  difficulty. 

OLIVIA.  Oh  no,  that  part  ought  to  be  quite  easy. 
But —  (She  hesitates.) 

GEORGE.  But  what  ? 

OLIVIA.  Well,  if  you  want  to  marry  me  to-morrow, 
George,  oughtn't  you  to  propose  to  me  first  ? 

GEORGE  (amazed").  Propose  ? 

OLIVIA.  Yes.  It  is  usual,  isn't  it,  to  propose  to  a 
person  before  you  marry  her,  and — and  we  want  to  do 
the  usual  thing,  don't  we  ? 

GEORGE  (upsef).  But  you — but  we  .  .  . 

OLIVIA.  You  see,  dear,  you're  George  Marden,  and 
I'm  Olivia  Telworthy,  and  you — you're  attracted  by  me, 
and  think  I  would  make  you  a  good  wife,  and  you  want 
to  marry  me.  Well,  naturally  you  propose  to  me  first, 
and— tell  me  how  much  you  are  attracted  by  me,  and 
what  a  good  wife  you  think  I  shall  make,  and  how 
badly  you  want  to  marry  me. 

GEORGE  (falling  into  the  humour  of  it,  as  he  thinks).  The 
baby  !  Did  she  want  to  be  proposed  to  all  over  again  ? 

OLIVIA.  Well,  she  did  rather. 

GEORGE  (rather  fancying  himself  as  an  actor).  She  shall 
then,  (lie  adopts  rvhai  he  considers  to  be  an  appropriate 
attitude)  Mrs.  Telworthy,  I  have  long  admired  you  in 
silence,  and  the  time  has  now  come  to  put  my  admiration 
into  words.  Er (But  apparently  he  finds  a  difficulty?) 

OLIVIA  (hopefully).  Into  words. 

GEORGE.  Er 

OLIVIA  (n-ith  the  idea  of  helping).  Oh,  Mr.  Marden  ! 

GEORGE.  Er — may  I  call  you  Olivia  ? 

OLIVIA.  Yes,  George. 


124  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  in 

GEORGE  (taking  her  hand).  Oliyia — I (He  hesi- 
tates.) 

OLIVIA.  I  don't  want  to  interrupt,  but  oughtn't  you 
to  be  on  your  knees  ?     It  is — usual,  I  believe.     If  one      i 
of  the  servants  came  in,  you  could  say  you  were  looking 
for  my  scissors. 

GEORGE.  Really,  Olivia,  you  must  allow  me  to  manage 
my  own  proposal  in  my  own  way. 

OLIVIA  (meekly).  I'm  sorry.     Do  go  on. 

GEORGE.  Well,  er — confound  it,  Olivia,  I  love  you. 
Will  you  marry  me  ? 

OLIVIA.  Thank  you,  George,  I  will  think  it  over. 

GEORGE  (laughing).  Silly  girl  !  Well  then,  to-morrow 
morning.  No  wedding-cake,  I'm  afraid,  Olivia.  (He 
faighs  again)  But  we'll  go  and  have  a  good  lunch 
somewhere. 

OLIVIA.  I  will  think  it  over,  George. 

GEORGE  (good-humour  edly).  Well,  give  us  a  kiss  while 
you're  thinking. 

OLIVIA.  I'm  afraid  you  mustn't  kiss  me  until  we  are 
actually  engaged. 

GEORGE  (laughing  uneasily).  Oh,  we  needn't  take  it  as 
seriously  as  all  that. 

OLIVIA.  But  a  woman  must  take  a  proposal  seriously. 

GEORGE  (alarmed  at  last).  What  do  you  mean  ? 

OLIVIA.  I  mean  that  the  whole  question,  as  I  heard 
somebody  say  once,  demands  much  more  anxious 
thought  than  either  of  us  has  given  it.  These  hasty 
marriages 

GEORGE.  Hasty  ! 

OLIVIA.  Well,  you've  only  just  proposed  to  me,  and 
you  want  to  marry  me  to-morrow. 

GEORGE.  Now  you're  talking  perfect  nonsense,  Olivia. 
You  know  quite  well  that  our  case  is  utterly  different 
from — from  any  other. 


ACT  m]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  125 

OLIVIA.  All  the  same,  one  has  to  ask  oneself  questions. 
With  a  young  girl  like — well,  with  a  young  girl,  love 
may  well  seem  to  be  all  that  matters.  But  with  a 
woman  of  my  age,  it  is  different.  I  have  to  ask  myself 
if  you  can  afford  to  support  a  wife. 

GEORGE  (coldly}.  Fortunately  that  is  a  question  that 
you  can  very  easily  answer  for  yourself. 

OLIVIA.  Well,  but  I  have  been  hearing  rather  bad 
reports  lately.  What  with  taxes  always  going  up,  and 
rents  always  going  down,  some  of  our  landowners  are 
getting  into  rather  straitened  circumstances.  At  least, 
so  I'm  told. 

GEORGE.  I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about. 

OLIVIA  (surprised).  Oh,  isn't  it  true  ?  I  heard  of  a 
case  only  this  morning — a  landowner  who  always  seemed 
to  be  very  comfortably  off,  but  who  couldn't  afford  an 
allowance  for  his  only  niece  when  she  wanted  to  get 
married.  It  made  me  think  that  one  oughtn't  to  judge 
by  appearances. 

GEORGE.  You  know  perfectly  well  that  I  can  afford  to 
support  a  wife  as  my  wife  should  be  supported. 

OLIVIA.  I'm  so  glad,  dear.  Then  your  income — you 
aren't  getting  anxious  at  all  ? 

GEORGE  (stiffly").  You  know  perfectly  well  what  my 
income  is.  I  see  no  reason  for  anxiety  in  the  future. 

OLIVIA.  Ah,  well,  then  we  needn't  think  about  that 
any  more.  Well,  then,  there  is  another  thing  to  be 
considered. 

GEORGE.  I  can't  make  out  what  you're  up  to.  Don't 
you  want  to  get  married  ;  to — er — legalise  this  extra- 
ordinary situation  in  which  we  are  placed  ? 

OLIVIA.  I  want  to  be  sure  that  I  am  going  to  be  happy, 
George.  I  can't  just  jump  at  the  very  first  offer  I  have 
had  since  my  husband  died,  without  considering  the 
whole  question  very  carefully. 


126  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  in 

GEORGE.  So  I'm  under  consideration,  eh  ? 

OLIVIA.  Every  suitor  is. 

GEORGE  (sarcastically,  as  he  thinks).  Well,  go  on. 

OLIVIA.  Well,  then,  there's  your  niece.  You  have  a 
niece  who  lives  with  you.  Of  course  Dinah  is  a  delight- 
ful girl,  but  one  doesn't  like  marrying  into  a  household 
in  which  there  is  another  grown-up  woman.  But 
perhaps  she  will  be  getting  married  herself  soon  ? 

GEORGE.  I  see  no  prospect  of  it. 

OLIVIA.  I  think  it  would  make  it  much  easier  if  she  did. 

GEORGE.  Is  this  a  threat,  Olivia  ?  Are  you  telling 
me  that  if  I  do  not  allow  young  Strange  to  marry  Dinah, 
you  will  not  marry  me  ? 

OLIVIA.  A  threat  ?     Oh  no,  George. 

GEORGE.  Then  what  does  it  mean  ? 

OLIVIA.  I'm  just  wondering  if  you  love  me  as  much  as 
Brian  loves  Dinah.  You  do  love  me  ? 

GEORGE  (from  his  heart).  You  know  I  do,  old  girl. 
(He  comes  to  her.) 

OLIVIA.  You're  not  just  attracted  by  my  pretty  face  ? 
.  .  .  Is  it  a  pretty  face  ? 

GEORGE.  It's  an  adorable  one.  (He  tries  to  kiss  it,  but 
she  turns  away.} 

OLIVIA.  How  can  I  be  sure  that  it  is  not  only  my  face 
which  makes  you  think  that  you  care  for  me  ?  Love 
which  rests  upon  a  mere  outward  attraction  cannot  lead 
to  any  lasting  happiness — as  one  of  our  thinkers  has 
observed. 

GEORGE.  What's  come  over  you,  Olivia  ?  I  don't 
understand  what  you're  driving  at.  Why  should  you 
doubt  my  love  ? 

OLIVIA.  Ah  ! — Why  ? 

GEORGE.  You  can't  pretend  that  we  haven't  been 
happy  together.  I've— I've  been  a  good  pal  to  you, 
eh  ?  We — we  suit  each  other,  old  girl. 


ACT  in]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  127 

OLIVIA.  Do  we  ? 

GEORGE.  Of  course  we  do. 

OLIVIA.  I  wonder.  When  two  people  of  our  age  think 
of  getting  married,  one  wants  to  be  very  sure  that  there 
is  real  community  of  ideas  between  them.  Whether  it  is 
a  comparatively  trivial  matter,  like  the  right  colour  for 
a  curtain,  or  some  very  much  more  serious  question  of 
conduct  which  arises,  one  wants  to  feel  that  there  is 
some  chance  of  agreement  between  husband  and 
wife. 

GEORGE.  We — we  love  each  other,  old  girl. 

OLIVIA.  We  do  now,  yes.  But  what  shall  we  be  like 
in  five  years'  time  ?  Supposing  that  after  we  have  been 
married  five  years,  we  found  ourselves  estranged  from 
each  other  upon  such  questions  as  Dinah's  future,  or 
the  decorations  of  the  drawing-room,  or  even  the  advice 
to  give  to  a  friend  who  had  innocently  contracted  a 
bigamous  marriage  ?  How  bitterly  we  should  regret 
then  our  hasty  plunge  into  a  matrimony  which  was  no 
true  partnership,  whether  of  tastes,  or  of  ideas,  or  even 
of  consciences  !  (JVith  a  sigh)  Ah  me  ! 

GEORGE  (nastily).  Unfortunately  for  your  argument, 
Olivia,  I  can  answer  you  out  of  your  own  mouth.  You 
seem  to  have  forgotten  what  you  said  this  morning  in 
the  case  of — er — young  Strange. 

OLIVIA  (reproachfully).  Is  it  quite  fair,  George,  to 
drag  up  what  was  said  this  morning  ? 

GEORGE.  You've  brought  it  on  yourself. 

OLIVIA.  I  ?  .  .  .  Well,  and  what  did  I  say  this 
morning  ? 

GEORGE.  You  said  that  it  was  quite  enough  that 
Strange  was  a  gentleman  and  in  love  with  Dinah  for 
me  to  let  them  marry  each  other. 

OLIVIA.  Oh  !   .   .  .  Is  that  enough,  George  ? 

GEORGE  (triumphantly).  You  said  so. 


128  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  in 

OLIVIA  (meekly}.  Well,  if  you  think  so,  too,  I — I  don't 
mind  risking  it. 

GEORGE  (kindly).  Aha,  my  dear  !     You  see  ! 

OLIVIA.  Then  you  do  think  it's  enough  ? 

GEORGE.  I — er Yes,  yes,  I — I  think  so. 

OLIVIA  (going  to  him).  My  darling  one  !  Then  we  can 
have  a  double  wedding.  How  jolly  ! 

GEORGE  (astounded).  A  double  one  ! 

OLIVIA.  Yes.     You  and  me,  Brian  and  Dinah. 

GEORGE  (firmly).  Now  look  here,  Olivia,  understand 
once  and  for  all,  I  am  not  to  be  blackmailed  into  giving 
my  consent  to  Dinah's  engagement.  Neither  black- 
mailed nor  tricked.  Our  marriage  has  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with  Dinah's. 

OLIVIA.  No,  dear.  I  quite  understand.  They  may 
take  place  about  the  same  time,  but  they  have  nothing 
to  do  with  each  other. 

GEORGE.  I  see  no  prospect  of  Dinah's  marriage  taking 
place  for  many  years. 

OLIVIA.  No,  dear,  that  was  what  I  said. 

GEORGE  (not  understanding  for  the  moment).  You 
said  .  .  .  ?  I  see.  Now,  Olivia,  let  us  have  this  per- 
fectly clear.  You  apparently  insist  on  treating  my — er 
— proposal  as  serious. 

OLIVIA  (surprised}.  Wasn't  it  serious  ?  Were  you 
trifling  with  me  ? 

GEORGE.  You  know  quite  well  what  I  mean.  You 
treat  it  as  an  ordinary  proposal  from  a  man  to  a  woman 
who  have  never  been  more  than  acquaintances  before. 
Very  well  then.  Will  you  tell  me  what  you  propose  to 
do,  if  you  decide  to — ah — refuse  me  ?  You  do  not 
suggest  that  we  should  go  on  living  together — un- 
married ? 

OLIVIA  (shocked).  Of  course  not,  George  !  What 
would  the  County — I  mean  Heaven — I  mean  the  Law 


ACT  HI]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  129 

— I  mean,  of  course  not !    Besides,  it's  so  unnecessary. 
If  I  decide  to  accept  you,  of  course  I  shall  marry  you. 

GEORGE.  Quite  so.  And  if  you — ah — decide  to  refuse 
me  ?  What  will  you  do  ? 

OLIVIA.  Nothing. 

GEORGE.  Meaning  by  that  ? 

OLIVIA.  Just  that,  George.  I  shall  stay  here — just  as 
before.  I  like  this  house.  It  wants  a  little  re-decorating 
perhaps,  but  I  do  like  it,  George.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  shall  be 
quite  happy  here. 

GEORGE.  I  see.  You  will  continue  to  live  down  here 
— in  spite  of  what  you  said  just  now  about  the 
immorality  of  it. 

OLIVIA  (surprised).  But  there's  nothing  immoral  in  a 
widow  living  alone  in  a  big  country  house,  with  perhaps 
the  niece  of  a  friend  of  hers  staying  with  her,  just  to 
keep  her  company. 

GEORGE  (sarcastic).  And  what  shall  7  be  doing,  when 
you've  so  very  kindly  taken  possession  of  my  house 
for  me  ? 

OLIVIA.  I  don't  know,  George.  Travelling,  I  expect. 
You  could  come  down  sometimes  with  a  chaperone.  I 
suppose  there  would  be  nothing  wrong  in  that. 

GEORGE  (indignant).  Thank  you  !  And  what  if  I 
refuse  to  be  turned  out  of  my  house  ? 

OLIVIA.  Then,  seeing  that  we  can't  both  be  in  it,  it 
looks  as  though  you'd  have  to  turn  me  out.  (Casually) 
I  suppose  there  are  legal  ways  of  doing  these  things. 
You'd  have  to  consult  your  solicitor  again. 

GEORGE  (amazed).  Legal  ways  ? 

OLIVIA.  Well,  you  couldn't  throw  me  out,  could  you  ? 
You'd  have  to  get  an  injunction  against  me — or 
prosecute  me  for  trespass — or  something.  It  would 
make  an  awfully  unusual  case,  wouldn't  it  ?  The  papers 
would  be  full  of  it. 


130  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  m 

GEORGE.  You  must  be  mad  ! 

OLIVIA  (dreamily).  Widow  of  well-known  ex-convict 
takes  possession  of  J.P.'s  house.  Popular  country 
gentleman  denied  entrance  to  his  own  home.  Doomed 
to  travel. 

GEORGE  (angrily).  I've  had  enough  of  this.  Do  you 
mean  all  this  nonsense  ? 

OLIVIA.  I  do  mean,  George,  that  I  am  in  no  hurry  to 
go  up  to  London  and  get  married.  I  love  the  country 
just  now,  and  (with  a  sigh}  after  this  morning,  I'm — 
rather  tired  of  husbands. 

GEORGE  (in  a  rage).  I've  never  heard  so  much — 
damned  nonsense  in  my  life.  I  will  leave  you  to  come 
to  your  senses.  (He  goes  out  indignantly} 

(OLIVIA,  who  has  forgiven  him  already,  throws  a 
loving  kiss  after  him,  and  then  turns  triumphantly 
to  her  dear  curtains.  She  takes  them,  smiling, 
to  the  sofa,  and  has  Just  got  to  work  again, 
when  MR.  PIM  appears  at  the  open  windows} 

PIM  (in  a  whisper}.  Er,  may  I  come  in,  Mrs.  Marden  ? 

OLIVIA  (turning  round  in  surprise}.  Mr.  Pirn  ! 

PIM  (anxiously).  Mr.  Marden  is — er — not  here  ? 

OLIVIA  (getting  up}.  Do  you  want  to  see  him  ?  I 
will  tell  him. 

PIM.  No,  no,  no  !  Not  for  the  world  !  (He  comes  in 
and  looks  anxiously  at  the  door)  There  is  no  immediate 
danger  of  his  returning,  Mrs.  Marden  ? 

OLIVIA  (surprised).  No,  I  don't  think  so.  What  is  it  ? 
You 

PIM.  I  took  the  liberty  of  returning  by  the  window  in 
the  hope  of— er — coming  upon  you  alone,  Mrs.  Marden. 

OLIVIA.  Yes  ? 

PIM  (still  rather  nervous}.  I — er — Mr.  Marden  will  be 
very  angry  with  me.  Quite  rightly.  I  blame  myself 
entirely.  I  do  not  know  how  I  can  have  been  so  stupid. 


ACT  m]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  131 

OLIVIA.  What  is  it,  Mr.  Pirn  ?  Has  my  husband  come 
to  life  again  ? 

PIM.  Mrs.  Marden,  I  throw  myself  on  your  mercy 
entirely.  The  fact  is — his  name  was  Polwittle. 

OLIVIA  (at  a  loss).  Whose  ?     My  husband's  ? 

PIM.  Yes,  yes.  The  name  came  back  to  me  suddenly, 
just  as  I  reached  the  gate.  Polwittle,  poor  fellow. 

OLIVIA.  But,  Mr.  Pirn,  my  husband's  name  was 
Telworthy. 

PIM.  No,  no,  Polwittle. 

OLIVIA.  But,  really  I  ought  to  ... 

pwi(jirmly).  Polwittle.  It  came  back  to  me  suddenly 
just  as  I  reached  the  gate.  For  the  moment,  I  had 
thoughts  of  conveying  the  news  by  letter.  I  was 

naturally  disinclined  to  return  in  person,  and • 

Polwittle.  (Proudly}  If  you  remember,  I  always  said 
it  was  a  curious  name. 

OLIVIA.  But  who  is  Polwittle  ? 

PIM  (in  surprise  at  her  stupidity}.  The  man  I  have 
been  telling  you  about,  who  met  with  the  sad  fatality 
at  Marseilles.  Henry  Polwittle — or  was  it  Ernest  ?  No, 
Henry,  I  think.  Poor  fellow. 

OLIVIA  (indignantly}.  But  you  said  his  name  was 
Telworthy  !  How  could  you  ? 

PIM.  Yes,  yes,  I  blame  myself  entirely. 

OLIVIA.  But  how  could  you  think  of  a  name  like 
Telworthy,  if  it  wasn't  Telworthy  ? 

PIM  (eagerly}.  Ah,  that  is  the  really  interesting  thing 
about  the  whole  matter. 

OLIVIA.  Mr.  Pirn,  all  your  visits  here  to-day  have  been 
interesting. 

PIM.  Yes,  but  you  see,  on  my  first  appearance  here 
this  morning,  I  was  received  by— er— Miss  Diana. 

OLIVIA.  Dinah. 

PIM.  Miss   Dinah,  yes.     She   was  in — er — rather  a 


132  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  in 

communicative  mood,  and  she  happened  to  mention,  by 
way  of  passing  the  time,  that  before  your  marriage  to 
Mr.  Marden  you  had  been  a  Mrs. — er 

OLIVIA.  Telworthy. 

PIM.  Yes,  yes,  Telworthy,  of  course.  She  mentioned 
also  Australia.  By  some  process  of  the  brain — which 
strikes  me  as  decidedly  curious — when  I  was  trying  to 
recollect  the  name  of  the  poor  fellow  on  the  boat,  whom 
you  remember  I  had  also  met  in  Australia,  the  fact  that 
this  other  name  was  also  stored  in  my  memory,  a  name 
equally  peculiar — this  fact  I  say  .  .  . 

OLIVIA  (seeing  that  the  sentence  is  rapidly  going  to 
pieces).  Yes,  I  understand. 

PIM.  I  blame  myself,  I  blame  myself  entirely. 

OLIVIA.  Oh,  you  mustn't  do  that,  Mr.  Pirn.  It  was 
really  Dinah's  fault  for  inflicting  all  our  family  history 
on  you. 

PIM.  Oh,  but  a  charming  young  woman.  I  assure 
you  I  was  very  much  interested  in  all  that  she  told  me. 
(Getting  up)  Well,  Mrs. — er — Marden,  I  can  only  hope 
that  you  will  forgive  me  for  the  needless  distress  I  have 
caused  you  to-day. 

OLIVIA.  Oh,  you  mustn't  worry  about  that — please. 

PIM.  And  you  will  tell  your  husband — you  will  break 
the  news  to  him  ? 

OLIVIA  (smiling  to  herself).  I  will — break  the  news  to 
him. 

PIM.  You  understand  how  it  is  that  I  thought  it 
better  to  come  to  you  in  the  first  place  ? 

OLIVIA.  I  am  very  glad  you  did. 

PIM  (holding  out  his  hand).  Then  I  will  say  good-bye, 
and — er 

OLIVIA.  Just  a  moment,  Mr.  Pirn.  Let  us  have  it 
quite  clear  this  time.  You  never  knew  my  husband, 
Jacob  Telworthy,  you  never  met  him  in  Australia,  you 


ACT  in]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  133 

never  saw  him  on   the   boat,   and   nothing  whatever 
happened  to  him  at  Marseilles.     Is  that  right  ? 

PIM.  Yes,  yes,  that  is  so. 

OLIVIA.  So  that,  since  he  was  supposed  to  have  died 
in  Australia  six  years  ago,  he  is  presumably  still  dead  ? 

PIM.  Yes,  yes,  undoubtedly. 

OLIVIA  (holding  out  her  hand  with  a  charming  smile). 
Then  good-bye,  Mr.  Pirn,  and  thank  you  so  much  for — 
for  all  your  trouble. 

PIM.  Not  at  all,  Mrs.  Marden.  I  can  only  assure 
you  I 

DINAH  (from  the  window).  Hullo,  here's  Mr.  Pirn  ! 
(She  comes  in,  followed  by  BRIAN.) 

PIM  (anxiously  looking  at  the  door  in  case  MR.  MARDEN 
should  come  in).  Yes,  yes,  I — er — 

DINAH.  Oh,  Mr.  Pirn,  you  mustn't  run  away  without 
even  saying  how  do  you  do  !  Such  old  friends  as  we 
are.  Why,  it  is  ages  since  I  saw  you  !  Are  you  staying 
to  tea  ? 

PIM.  I'm  afraid  I 

OLIVIA.  Mr.  Pirn  has  to  hurry  away,  Dinah.  You 
mustn't  keep  him. 

DINAH.  Well,  but  you'll  come  back  again  ? 

PIM.  I  fear  that  I  am  only  a  passer-by,  Miss — er — 
Dinah. 

OLIVIA.  You  can  walk  with  him  to  the  gate,  dear. 

PIM  (gratefully  to  OLIVIA).  Thank  you.  (He  edges 
towards  the  window)  If  you  would  be  so  kind,  Miss 
Dinah 

BRIAN.  I'll  catch  you  up. 

DINAH.  Come  along  then,  Mr.  Pirn.  (As  they  go  ouf) 
I  want  to  hear  all  about  your  first  wife.  You  haven't 
really  told  me  anything  yet. 

(OLIVIA  resumes  her  work,  and  BRIAN  sits  on  the 
back  of  the  sofa  looking  at  her?) 


134  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  HI 

BRIAN  (awkwardly).  I  just  wanted  to  say,  if  you  don't 
think  it  cheek,  that  I'm — I'm  on  your  side,  if  I  may  be, 
and  if  I  can  help  you  at  all  I  should  be  very  proud  of 
being  allowed  to. 

OLIVIA  (looking  up  at  him).  Brian,  you  dear.  That's 
sweet  of  you.  .  .  .  But  it's  quite  all  right  now,  you 
know. 

BRIAN.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad. 

OLIVIA.  Yes,  that's  what  Mr.  Pirn  came  back  to  say, 
He'd  made  a  mistake  about  the  name.  (Smiling)  George 
is  the  only  husband  I  have. 

BRIAN  (surprised).  What  ?  You  mean  that  the  whole 
thing — that  Pirn (With  conviction*)  Silly  ass  ! 

OLIVIA  (kindly).  Oh,  well,  he  didn't  mean  to  be. 
{After  a  pause)  Brian,  do  you  know  anything  about  the 
Law  ? 

BRIAN.  I'm  afraid  not.     I  hate  the  Law.     Why  ? 

OLIVIA  (casually).  Oh,  I  just — I  was  wondering — 
thinking  about  all  the  shocks  we've  been  through  to-day. 
Second  marriages,  and  all  that. 

BRIAN.  Oh  !     It's  a  rotten  business. 

OLIVIA.  I  suppose  there's  nothing  wrong  in  getting 
married  to  the  same  person  twice  ? 

BRIAN.  A  hundred  times  if  you  like,  I  should  think. 

OLIVIA.  Oh  ? 

BRIAN.  After  all,  in  France,  they  always  go  through 
it  twice,  don't  they  ?  Once  before  the  Mayor  or  some- 
body, and  once  in  church. 

OLIVIA.  Of  course  they  do  !  How  silly  of  me.  ...  I 
think  it's  rather  a  nice  idea.  They  ought  to  do  it  in 
England  more. 

BRIAN.  Well,  once  will  be  enough  for  Dinah  and  me, 
if  you  can  work  it.  (Anxiously)  D'you  think  there's  any 
chance,  Olivia  ? 

OLIVIA  (smiling).  Every  chance,  dear. 


ACT  m]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  135 

BRIAN  (jumping  up).  I  say,  do  you  really  ?  Have  you 
squared  him  ?  I  mean,  has  he — 

OLIVIA.  Go  and  catch  them  up  now.  We'll  talk  about 
it  later  on. 

BRIAN.  Bless  you.     Righto. 

(As  he  goes  out  by  the  windows,  GEORGE  comes  in  at 
the  door.  GEORGE  stands  looking  after  him, 
and  then  turns  to  OLIVIA,  who  is  absorbed  in 
her  curtains.  He  walks  up  and  down  the  room, 
fidgeting  with  things,  waiting  for  her  to  speak. 
As  she  says  nothing,  he  begins  to  talk  himself, 
but  in  an  obviously  unconcerned  way.  There 
is  a  pause  after  each  answer  of  hers,  before  he 
gets  out  his  next  remark.} 

GEORGE  (casually).  Good-looking  fellow,  Strange. 
OLIVIA  (equally  casually).  Brian — yes,  isn't  he  ?     And 
such  a  nice  boy.  .  .  . 

GEORGE.  Got  fifty  pounds  for  a  picture  the  other  day, 
didn't  he  ?  Hey  ? 

OLIVIA.  Yes.     Of  course  he  has  only  just  begun.  .  .  . 
GEORGE.  Critics  think  well  of  him,  what  ? 
OLIVIA.  They   all   say   he   has   genius.     Oh,   I   don't 
think  there's  any  doubt  about  it.   ... 

GEORGE.  Of  course,  I  don't  profess  to  know  anything 
about  painting. 

OLIVIA.  You've  never  had  time  to  take  it  up,  dear. 
GEORGE.  I  know  what  I  like,  of  course.     Can't  say 
I  see  much  in  this  new-fangled   stuff.     If  a  man  can 
paint,  why  can't   he  paint   like — like   Rubens   or — or 
Reynolds  ? 

OLIVIA.  I  suppose  we  all  have  our  own  styles.  Brian 
will  find  his  directly.  Of  course,  he's  only  just  begin- 
ning. .  .  . 

GEORGE.  But  they  think  a  lot  of  him,  what  ? 
OLIVIA.  Oh  yes  ! 


136  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  in 

GEORGE.  H'm  !  .  .  .  Good-looking  fellow. 

(There  is  rather  a  longer  silence  this  time.  GEORGE 
continues  to  hope  that  he  is  appearing  casual 
and  unconcerned.  He  stands  looking  at 
OLIVIA'S  work  for  a  moment) 

GEORGE.  Nearly  finished  'em  ? 

OLIVIA.  Very  nearly.     Are  my  scissors  there  ? 

GEORGE  (looking  round].  Scissors  ? 

OLIVIA.  Ah,  here  they  are.  .  .  . 

GEORGE.  Where  are  you  going  to  put  'em  ? 

OLIVIA  (a*  if  really  wondering).  I  don't  quite  know. 
...  I  had  thought  of  this  room,  but — I'm  not  quite 
sure. 

GEORGE.  Brighten  the  room  up  a  bit. 

OLIVIA.  Yes.  .  .  . 

GEORGE  (walking  over  to  the  present  curtains').  H'm. 
They  are  a  bit  faded. 

OLIVIA  (shaking  out  hers,  and  looking  at  them  critically). 
Sometimes  I  think  I  love  them,  and  sometimes  I'm  not 
quite  sure. 

GEORGE.  Best  way  is  to  hang  'em  up  and  see  how  you 
like  'em  then.  Always  take  'em  down  again. 

OLIVIA.  That's  rather  a  good  idea,  George  ! 

GEORGE.  Best  way. 

OLIVIA.  Yes.  ...  I  think  we  might  do  that.  .  .  . 
The  only  thing  is (she  hesitates). 

GEORGE.  What  ? 

OLIVIA.  Well,  the  carpet  and  the  chairs,  and  the 
cushions  and  things 

GEORGE.  What  about  'em  ? 

OLIVIA.  Well,  if  we  had  new  curtains 

GEORGE.  You'd  want  a  new  carpet,  eh  ? 

OLIVIA  (doubtfully).  Y — yes.  Well,  new  chair-covers 
anyhow. 

GEORGE.  H'm.  .  .  .  Well,  why  not  ? 


ACT  in]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  1ST 

OLIVIA.  Oh,  but 

GEORGE  (with  an  awkward  laugh}.  We're  not  so  hard  up 
as  all  that,  you  know. 

OLIVIA.  No,  I  suppose  not.  (Thoughtfully}  I  suppose 
it  would  mean  that  I  should  have  to  go  up  to  London 
for  them.  That's  rather  a  nuisance. 

GEORGE  (extremely  casual}.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  We 
might  go  up  together  one  day. 

OLIVIA.  Well,  of  course  if  we  were  up — for  anything 
else — we  could  just  look  about  us,  and  see  if  we  could 
find  what  we  want. 

GEORGE.  That's  what  I  meant. 

(There  is  another  silence.  GEORGE  is  wondering 
whether  to  come  to  closer  quarters  with  the 
great  question.) 

OLIVIA.  Oh,  by  the  way,  George 

GEORGE.    Yes  ? 

OLIVIA  (innocently).  I  told  Brian,  and  I  expect  he'll 
tell  Dinah,  that  Mr.  Pirn  had  made  a  mistake  about  the 
name. 

GEORGE  (astonished).  You  told  Brian  that  Mr.  Pirn 

OLIVIA.  Yes — I  told  him  that  the  whole  thing  was  a 
mistake.  It  seemed  the  simplest  way. 

GEORGE.  Olivia !  Then  you  mean  that  Brian  and 
Dinah  think  that — that  we  have  been  married  all  the 
time  ? 

OLIVIA.  Yes.  .  .  .  They  both  think  so  now. 

GEORGE  (coming  close  to  her).  Olivia,  does  that  mean 
that  you  are  thinking  of  marrying  me  ? 

OLIVIA.  At  your  old  Registry  Office  ? 

GEORGE  (eagerly).  Yes  ! 

OLIVIA.  To-morrow  ? 

GEORGE    Yes  ! 

OLIVIA.  Do  you  want  me  to  very  much  ? 

GEORGE.  My  darling,  you  know  I  do  ! 


138  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  m 

OLIVIA  (a  little  apprehensive).  We  should  have  to  do 
it  very  quietly. 

GEORGE.  Of  course,  darling.  Nobody  need  know  at 
all.  We  don't  want  anybody  to  know.  And  now 
that  you've  put  Brian  and  Dinah  off  the  scent,  by 

telling  them  that  Mr.  Pirn  made   a  mistake (He 

breaks  off,  and  says  admiringly")  That  was  very  clever 
of  you,  Olivia.     I  should  never  have  thought  of  that. 

OLIVIA  (innocently).  No,  darling.  .  .  .  You  don't  think 
it  was  wrong,  George  ? 

GEORGE  (his  verdict).  An  innocent  deception  .  .  .  per- 
fectly harmless. 

OLIVIA.  Yes,  dear,  that  was  what  I  thought  about — 
about  what  I  was  doing. 

GEORGE.  Then  you  will  come  to-morrow  ?  (She  nods.) 
And  if  we  happen  to  see  the  carpet,  or  anything  that 
you  want 

OLIVIA.  Oh,  what  fun  ! 

GEORGE  (beaming).  And  a  wedding  lunch  at  the 
Carlton,  what  ?  (She  nods  eagerly.)  And — and  a  bit 
of  a  honeymoon  in  Paris  ? 

OLIVIA.  Oh,  George  ! 

GEORGE  (hungrily).  Give  us  a  kiss,  old  girl. 

OLIVIA  (lovingly).  George  ! 

(She  holds  up  her  cheek  to  him.     He  kisses  it,  and 
then  suddenly  takes  her  in  his  arms.) 

GEORGE.  Don't  ever  leave  me,  old  girl. 

OLIVIA  (affectionately).  Don't  ever  send  me  away,  old 
boy. 

GEORGE    (fervently).  I    won't.  .  .  .  (Awkwardly)  I — I 

don't  think  I  would  have,  you  know.     I — I 

(DINAH  and  BRIAN  appear  at  the  windows,  having 
seen  MR.  PIM  safely  off.) 

DINAH  (surprised).  Oo,  I  say  ! 

(GEORGE  hastily  moves  away.) 


ACT  HI]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  139 

OEOROE.  Hallo  ! 

DINAH  (going  up  impetuously  to  him).  Give  me  one,  too, 
George  ;  Brian  won't  mind. 

BRIAN.  Really,  Dinah,  you  are  the  limit. 

GEORGE  (formally,  but  enjoying  if).  Do  you  mind,  Mr. 
Strange  ? 

BRIAN  (a  little  uncomfortably).  Oh,  I  say,  sir 

GEORGE.  We'll  risk  it,  Dinah.     (He  kisses  her.) 

DINAH  (triumphantly  to  BRIAN).  Did  you  notice  that 
one  ?  That  wasn't  just  an  ordinary  affectionate  kiss. 
It  was  a  special  bless -you -my -children  one.  (To 
GEORGE)  Wasn't  it  ? 

OLIVIA.  You  do  talk  nonsense,  darling. 

DINAH.  Well,  I'm  so  happy,  now  that  Mr.  Pirn  has 

relented  about  your  first  husband 

(GEORGE  catches  OLIVIA'S  eye  and  smiles  ;  she  smiles 
back  ;  but  they  are  different  smiles.) 

GEORGE  (the  actor).  Yes,  yes,  stupid  fellow  Pirn, 
what  ? 

BRIAN.  Absolute  idiot. 

DINAH.  — And  now  that  George  has  relented  about 
my  first  husband. 

GEORGE.  You  get  on  much  too  quickly,  young  woman, 
(To  BRIAN)  So  you  want  to  marry  my  Dinah,  eh  ? 

BRIAN  (with  a  smile).  Well,  I  do  rather,  sir. 

DINAH  (hastily).  Not  at  once,  of  course,  George.  We 
want  to  be  engaged  for  a  long  time  first,  and  write 
letters  to  each  other,  and  tell  each  other  how  much 
we  love  each  other,  and  sit  next  to  each  other  when  we 
go  out  to  dinner. 

GEORGE  (to  OLIVIA).  Well,  that  sounds  fairly  harmless, 
I  think. 

OLIVIA  (smiling).  I  think  so.   ... 

GEORGE  (to  BRIAN).  Then  you'd  better  have  a  talk  with 
me — er — Brian. 


140  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  in 

BRIAN.  Thank  you  very  much,  sir. 

GEORGE.  Well,  come  along  then.  (Looking  at  his 
match)  I  am  going  up  to  town  after  tea,  so  we'd 
better 

DINAH.  I  say  !     Are  you  going  to  London  ? 

GEORGE  (with  the  smile  of  the  conspirator).  A  little 
business.  Never  you  mind,  young  lady. 

DINAH  (calmly).  All  right.  Only,  bring  me  back 
something  nice. 

GEORGE  (to  BRIAN).  Shall  we  walk  down  and  look  at 
the  pigs  ? 

BRIAN.  Righto  ! 

OLIVIA.  Don't  go  far,  dear.  I  may  want  you  in  a 
moment. 

GEORGE.  All  right,  darling,  we'll  be  on  the  terrace. 

[They  go  out  together. 

DINAH.  Brian  and  George  always  try  to  discuss  me 
in  front  of  the  pigs.  So  tactless  of  them.  Are  you 
going  to  London,  too,  darling  ? 

OLIVIA.  To-morrow  morning. 

DINAH.  What  are  you  going  to  do  in  London  ? 

OLIVIA.  Oil,  shopping,  and— one  or  two  little  things. 

DINAH.  With  George  ? 

OLIVIA.  Yes.  .  .  . 

DINAH.  I  say,  wasn't  it  lovely  about  Pirn  ? 

OLIVIA.  Lovely  ? 

DINAH.  Yes ;  he  told  me  all  about  it.  Making  such 
a  hash  of  tilings,  I  mean. 

OLIVIA  (innocently).  Did  he  make  a  hash  of  things  ? 

DINAH.  Well,  I  mean  keeping  on  coming  like  that. 
And  if  you  look  at  it  all  round — well,  for  all  he  had  to 
say,  he  needn't  really  have  come  at  all. 

OLIVIA  (smiling  to  herself).  I  shouldn't  quite  say  that, 
Dinah.  (She  stands  up  and  shakes  out  the  curtains.) 

DINAH.  I  say,  aren't  they  jolly  ? 


ACT  m]  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  141 

OLIVIA  (demurely),  I'm  so  glad  everybody  likes  them. 
Tell  George  I'm  ready,  will  you  ? 

DINAH.    I   say,  is  he  going  to   hang  them   up   for 
you  ? 

OLIVIA.  Well,  I  thought  he  could  reach  best. 
DINAH.  Righto!   What  fun!   (A  t  the  windows)  George! 
George  !     (To  OLIVIA)  Brian  is  just  telling  George  about 
the   five    shillings    he's    got  in  the    Post    Office.  .  .  . 
George  ! 

GEORGE  (from  the  terrace).  Coming  ! 

(He  hurries  in,  the  model  husband.     BRIAN  follows!) 
OLIVIA.  Oh,  George,  just  hang  these  up  for  me,  will 
you  ? 

GEORGE.  Of  course,  darling.     I'll  get  the  steps  from 
the  library. 

[He  hurries  out. 

(BRIAN  takes  out  his  sketching  block.     It  is  obvious 
that  his  Jive  shillings  has  turned  the  scale.     He 
bows  to  DINAH.     He  kisses  OLIVIA'S  hand  with 
an  air.     He  motions  to  DINAH  to  be  seated!) 
DINAH  (impressed).  What  is  it  ? 

BRIAN  (beginning  to  draw).  Portrait  of  Lady  Strange. 
(GEORGE  hurries  in  with  the  steps,  and  gets  to  work. 
There  is  a  great  deal  of  curtain,  and  for  the 
moment  he  becomes  slightly  involved  in  it. 
However,  by  draping  it  over  his  head  and 
shoulders,  he  manages  to  get  successfully  up 
the  steps.  There  we  may  leave  him. 
But  we  have  not  quite  finished  with  MR.  PIM.  // 
is  a  matter  of  honour  with  him  now  that  he 
should  get  his  little  story  quite  accurate  before 
passing  out  of  the  MARDENS'  life  for  ever.  So 
he  comes  back  for  the  last  time  ;  for  the  last 
time  we  see  his  head  at  the  window.  He 
tvhispers  to  OLIVIA.) 


142  MR.  PIM  PASSES  BY  [ACT  HI 

MR.  PIM.    Mrs.    Marden !     I've    just    remembered. 
His  name  was  Ernest  Polwittle — not  Henry. 

(He  goes  off  happily.  A  curious  family  the 
MARDENS.  Perhaps  somebody  else  would  have 
committed  bigamy  if  he  had  not  remembered 
in  time  that  it  mas  Ernest.  .  .  .  Ernest.  .  .  . 
Yes.  .  .  .  Now  he  can  go  back  with  an  easy 
conscience  to  the  Trevors) 


THE   CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE 

A   COMEDY   IN   ONE  ACT 


143 


CHARACTERS 

KATE  CAMBERLEY. 

CYRIL  NORWOOD  (her  lover}. 

DENNIS  CAMBERLEY  (her  husband}. 


THIS  play  was  first  produced  by  Mr.  Godfrey  Tearle  at 
the  Coliseum  on  September  8,  1Q19,  with  the  following 
cast : 

Dennis  Camberley  -        -     GODFREY  TEAIILE. 

Kate  Camberley      -         -     MARY  MALONE. 

Cyril  Norwood       -        -    EWAN  BROOK. 


144 


It  is  an  evening  of  1919  in  KATE'S  drawing-room.  She  is 
expecting  him,  and  the  Curtain  goes  up  as  he  is 
announced. 

MAID.  Mr.  Cyril  Norwood. 

(He  comes  in.) 

NORWOOD  (for  the  MAID'S  benefit,  but  you  may  be  sure 
she  knows).  Ah,  good  evening,  Mrs.  Camberley  ! 
KATE.  Good  evening  ! 

(They  shake  hands.  NORWOOD  is  sleek  and  prosper- 
ous, in  a  morning  coat  with  a  white  slip  to  his 
waistcoat.  He  is  good  -  looking  in  rather  an 
obvious  nay  with  rather  an  obvious  moustache. 
Most  women  like  him — at  least,  so  he  will  tell 
you) 

NORWOOD  (as  soon  as  they  are  alone).  My  darling  ! 
KATE.  Cyril ! 

(He  takes  her  hands  and  kisses  them.    He  would  kiss 

her  face,  but  she  is  not  quite  ready  for  this.) 
NORWOOD.  You  let  me  yesterday.    Why  mayn't  I  kiss 
you  to-day  ? 

KATE.  Not  just  yet,  dear.     I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
Come  and  sit  down. 

(They  sit  on  the  sofa  together.) 

NORWOOD.  You  aren't  sorry  for  what  you  said  yester- 
day ? 

145  L 


146  THE  CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE 

KATE  (looking  at  him  thoughtfully,  and  then  shaking  her 
head).  No. 

NORWOOD.  Then  what's  happened  ? 

KATE.  I've  just  had  a  letter  from  Dennis. 

NORWOOD  (anxiously).  Dennis — your  husband  ? 

KATE.  Yes. 

NORWOOD.  Where  does  he  write  from  ? 

KATE.  India. 

NORWOOD.  Oh,  well ! 

KATE.  He  says  I  may  expect  him  home  almost  as 
soon  as  I  get  the  letter. 

NORWOOD.  Good  Heavens  ! 

KATE.  Yes.  .  .  . 

NORWOOD  (always  hopeful).  Perhaps  he  didn't  catch 
the  boat  that  he  expected  to.  Wouldn't  he  have  cabled 
from  somewhere  on  the  way  ? 

KATE.  You  can't  depend  on  cables  nowadays.  / 
don't  know What  are  we  to  do,  Cyril  ? 

NORWOOD.  You  know  what  I  always  wanted  you  to 
do.  (He  takes  her  hands)  Come  away  with  me. 

KATE  (doubtfully).  And  let  Dennis  come  home  and 
find — an  empty  house  ? 

NORWOOD  (eagerly).  You  are  nothing  to  him,  and  he 
is  nothing  to  you.  A  war- wedding  ! — after  you'd  been 
engaged  to  each  other  for  a  week  !  And  forty-eight 
hours  afterwards  he  is  sent  out  to  India — and  you 
haven't  seen  him  since. 

KATE.  Yes.     I  keep  telling  myself  that. 

NORWOOD.  The  world  may  say  that  you're  his  wife 
and  he's  your  husband,  but — what  do  you  know  of 
him  ?  He  won't  even  be  the  boy  you  married.  He'll 
be  a  stranger  whom  you'll  hardly  recognise.  And  you 
aren't  the  girl  he  married.  You're  a  woman  now,  and 
you're  just  beginning  to  learn  what  love  is.  Come 
with  me. 


THE  CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE  147 

KATE.  It's  true,  it's  true.  But  he  has  been  fighting 
for  us.  And  to  come  home  again  after  those  four  years 
of  exile,  and  find — 

NORWOOD.  Exile — that's  making  much  too  much  of 
it.  He's  come  through  the  war  safely,  and  he's  prob- 
ably had  what  he'd  call  a  topping  good  time.  Like 
enough  he's  been  in  love  half-a-dozen  times  himself 
since — on  leave  in  India  and  that  sort  of  thing.  India  ! 
Well,  you  should  read  Kipling. 

KATE.  I  wonder.  Of  course,  as  you  say,  I  don't  know 
him.  But  I  feel  that  we  should  be  happier  afterwards 
if  we  were  quite  straight  about  it  and  told  him  just 
what  had  happened.  If  he  had  been  doing  what 
you  say,  he  would  understand — and  perhaps  be  glad 
of  it. 

NORWOOD  (uneasily).  Really,  darling,  it's  hardly  a 
thing  you  can  talk  over  calmly  with  a  husband,  even 
if  he —  We  don't  want  any  unpleasantness,  and — 
er —  (Taking  her  hands  again)  Besides,  I  want  you, 
Kate.  It  may  be  weeks  before  he  comes  back.  We 
can't  go  on  like  this  .  .  .  Kate  ! 

KATE.  Do  you  love  me  so  very  much  ? 

NORWOOD.  My  darling  ! 

KATE.  Well,  let  us  wait  till  the  end  of  the  week — in 
case  he  comes.  I  don't  want  to  seem  to  be  afraid  of 
him. 

NORWOOD  (eagerly).  And  then  ? 

KATE.  Then  I'll  come  with  you. 

NORWOOD  (taking  her  in  his  anus).  My  darling  !  .  .  . 
There  !  And  now  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  Ask  me 
to  stay  to  dinner  or  what  ? 

KATE.  Certainly  not,  sir.  I'm  going  out  to  dinner 
to-night. 

NORWOOD  (jealously).  Who  with  ? 

KATE.    YOU. 


148  THE  CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE 

NORWOOD  (eagerly).  At  our  little  restaurant  ?  (She 
nods)  Good  girl !  Then  go  and  put  on  a  hat,  while  I 
ring  'em  up  and  see  if  they've  got  a  table. 

KATE.  What  fun  !  I  won't  be  a  moment.  (She  goes 
to  the  door)  Cyril,  you  will  always  love  me  ? 

NORWOOD.  Of  course  I  will,  darling.  (She  nods  at 
him  and  goes  out.  He  is  very  well  pleased  with  himself 
when  he  is  left  alone.  He  goes  to  the  telephone  with  a 
smile)  Gerrard  11,001.  Yes  ...  I  want  a  table  for 
two.  To-night  .  .  .  Mr.  Cyril  Norwood.  .  .  .  Oh,  in 
about  half  an  hour.  .  .  .  Yes,  for  two.  Is  that  all 
right  ?  .  .  .  Thank  you. 

(He  puts  the  receiver  back  and  turns  round  to 
see  DENNIS  CAMBERLEY,  who  has  just  come  in. 
DENNIS  is  certainly  a  man  now  ;  very  easily 
and  pleasantly  master  of  himself  and  of  any- 
body else  who  gets  in  his  way.) 

NORWOOD  (surprised).  Hallo  ! 

DENNIS  (nodding  pleasantly).  Hallo  ! 

NORWOOD  (wondering  who  he  is).  You — er ? 

DENNIS.  I  just  came  in,  Mr.  Norwood. 

NORWOOD.  You  know  my  name  ? 

DENNIS.  Oh  yes,  I've  heard  a  good  deal  about  you, 
Mr.  Cyril  Norwood. 

NORWOOD  (stiffly).  I  don't  think  I've  had  the  pleasure 
of — er 

DENNIS  (ninningly).  Oh,  but  I'm  sure  you  must  have 
heard  a  good  deal  about  me. 

NORWOOD.  Good  God,  you  don't  mean 

DENNIS.  I  do,  indeed.  (  With  a  boni)  Dennis  Camberley, 
the  missing  husband.  (Pleadingly)  You  have  heard  about 
me,  haven't  you  ? 

NORWOOD.  I — er — Mr.  Camberley,  yes,  of  course.  So 
you're  back  ? 

DENNIS.  Yes,  I'm  back.    Sometimes  they  don't  come 


THE  CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE  149 

back,  Mr.  Norwood,  and  sometimes — they  do.  .  .  . 
Even  after  four  years.  .  .  .  But  you  did  talk  about  me 
sometimes  ? 

NORWOOD.  How  did  you  know  my  name  ? 

DENNIS.  A  little  bird  told  me  about  you. 

NORWOOD  (turning  away  in  anger).  Pooh  ! 

DENNIS.  One  of  those  little  Eastern  birds,  which 
sit  on  the  backs  of  crocodiles,  searching  for — well, 
let  us  say,  breakfast.  He  said  to  me  one  morning  : 
"  Talking  of  parasites,"  he  said,  "  do  you  know  Mr. 
Cyril  Norwood  ?  "  he  said,  "  because  I  could  tell  you 
an  interesting  story  about  him,"  he  said,  "  if  you  care 

NORWOOD  (wheeling  round  furiously).  Look  here,  sir, 
we'd  better  have  it  out  quite  plainly.  I  don't  want  any 
veiled  insults  and  sneers  from  you.  I  admit  that  an 
unfortunate  situation  has  arisen,  but  we  must  look  facts 
in  the  face.  You  may  be  Mrs.  Cainberley's  husband, 
but  she  has  not  seen  you  for  four  years,  and — well,  she 
and  I  love  each  other.  There  you  have  it.  What  are 
you  going  to  do  ? 

DENNIS  (anxiously].  You  don't  feel  that  I  have 
neglected  her,  Mr.  Norwood  ?  You  see,  I  couldn't  come 
home  for  week-ends  very  well,  and 

NORWOOD .  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 

DENNIS  (pleasantly).  Well,  what  do  you  suggest  ? 

NORWOOD  (taken  aback).  Really,  sir,  I — er — 

DENNIS.  You  see,  I  feel  so  out  of  it  all.  I've  been 
leading  such  a  nasty,  uncivilised  life  for  the  last  four 
years,  I  really  hardly  know  what  is — what  is  being 
done.  Now  you  have  been  mixing  in  Society  .  .  . 
making  munitions  .  .  . 

NORWOOD  (stiffly).  I  have  been  engaged  on  important 
work  for  the  Government  of  a  confidential  nature 

DENNIS.  You,  as  I  was  saying,  have  been  mixing  in 


150  THE  CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE 

Society,  engaged  on  important  work  for  the  Govern- 
ment of  a  confidential  nature 

NORWOOD.  It  was  my  great  regret  that  I  had  no 
opportunity  of  enlisting 

DENNIS.  With  no  opportunity,  as  I  was  about  to  say, 
of  enlisting,  but  with  many  opportunities,  fortunately, 
of  making  love  to  my  wife. 

NORWOOD.  Now  look  here,  Mr.  Camberley,  I've 
already  told  you 

DENNIS  (soothing  him).  But,  my  dear  Mr.  Norwood, 
I'm  only  doing  what  you  said.  I'm  looking  facts  in  the 
face.  (Surprised)  You  aren't  ashamed  of  having  made 
love  to  my  wife,  are  you  ? 

NORWOOD  (impatiently).  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 
That's  all  that  matters  between  you  and  me.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  ? 

DENNIS.  Well,  that  was  what  I  was  going  to  ask  you. 
You're  so  much  more  in  the  swim  than  I  am.  (Earnestly) 
What  is  being  done  in  Society  just  now  ?  You  must 
have  heard  a  good  deal  of  gossip  about  it.  All  your 
friends,  who  were  also  engaged  on  important  work  of 
a  confidential  nature,  with  no  opportunity  of  enlisting 
— don't  they  tell  you  their  own  experiences  ?  What 
have  the  husbands  been  doing  lately  when  they  came 
back  from  the  front  ? 

NORWOOD  (advancing  on  him  angrily).  Now,  once  and 

for  all,  sir 

(KATE  comes  in,  with  a  hat  in  each  hand,  calling  to 
NORWOOD  as  she  comes.} 

KATE.  Oh,  Cyril — which  of  these  two  hats — (she  sees 
her  husband) — Dennis  ! 

DENNIS  (looking  at  her  steadfastly).  How  are  you, 
Kate? 

KATE  (stammering).  You've — you've  come  back  ?  (She 
puts  the  hats  down.) 


THE  CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE  151 

DENNIS.  I've  come  back.  As  I  was  telling  Mr. 
Norwood. 

KATE  (looking  from  one  to  the  other).  You ? 

DENNIS  (smiling).  Oh,  we're  quite  old  friends. 

NORWOOD  (going  to  her).  I've  told  him,  Kate. 

(lie  takes  her  hands,  and  tries  to  look  defiantly 
at  DENNIS,  though  he  is  not  feeling  like  that  at 
all.) 

KATE  (looking  anxiously  at  DENNIS).  What  are  you 
going  to  do  ? 

(She  can  hardly  make  him  out.  He  is  different  from 
the  husband  who  left  her  four  years  ago.) 

DENNIS.  Well,  that's  what  Cyril  keeps  asking  me. 
(To  NORWOOD)  You  don't  mind  my  calling  you  Cyril  ? 
— such  an  old  friend  of  my  wife's 

KATE  (unabk  to  make  him  out).  Dennis  !  (She  is 
frightened.) 

NORWOOD  (soothingly).  It's  all  right,  dear. 

DENNIS.  Do  let's  sit  down  and  talk  it  over  in  a 
friendly  way. 

KATE  (going  to  him).  Dennis,  can  you  ever  forgive 
me  ?  We  never  ought  to  have  got  married — we  knew 
each  other  so  little — you  had  to  go  away  so  soon — I — 
I  was  going  to  write  and  tell  you — oh,  I  wish — 

DENNIS.  That's  all  right,  Kate.  (He  will  not  let  her 
come  too  close  to  him.  He  steps  back  and  looks  at  her  from 
head  to  feet)  You've  altered. 

KATE.  That's  just  it,  Dennis.  I'm  not  the  girl 
who 

DENNIS.  You've  grown  four  years  younger  and  four 
years  prettier. 

KATE  (dropping  her  eyes).  Have  I  ? 

DENNIS.  Yes.  .  .  .  You  do  your  hair  a  new  way. 

KATE  (surprised).  Do  you  like  it  ? 

DENNIS.  I  love  it. 


152  THE  CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE 

NORWOOD  (coughing).  Yes,  well,  perhaps  we'd 
better 

DENNIS  (with  a  start).  I  beg  your  pardon,  Cyril.  I 
was  forgetting  you  for  the  moment.  Well,  now  do  sit 
down.  (NORWOOD  and  KATE  sit  down  together  on  the  sofa, 
but  DENNIS  remains  standing)  That's  right. 

KATE.  Well  ? 

DENNIS  (to  KATE).  You  want  to  marry  him,  eh  ? 

NORWOOD.  We  have  already  told  you  the  circum- 
stances, Mr.  Camberley.  I  need  hardly  say  how 
regrettable  it  is  that — er — but  at  the  same  time  these 
— er  —  things  will  happen,  and  since  it  —  er  —  has 
happened 

KATE.  I  feel  I  hardly  know  you,  Dennis.  Did  I  love 
you  when  I  married  you  ?  I  don't  know.  It  was  so 
sudden.  We  had  no  time  to  find  out  anything  about 
each  other.  And  now  you  come  back — a  stranger 

DENNIS  (jerking  his  head  at  NORWOOD).  And  he's  not  a 
stranger,  eh  ? 

KATE  (dropping  her  eyes).  N-no. 

DENNIS.  You  feel  you  know  all  about  him  ? 

KATE.  I — we (She  is  unhappy.") 

NORWOOD.  We  have  discovered  that  we  love  each 
other.  (Taking  her  hands)  My  darling  one,  this  is 
distressing  for  you.  Let  me 

DENNIS  (sharply).  It  wouldn't  be  distressing  for  her, 
if  you  didn't  keep  messing  her  about.  Why  the  devil 
can't  you  sit  on  a  chair  by  yourself  ? 

NORWOOD  (indignantly].  Really  ! 

KATE  (freeing  herself  from  him,  and  moving  to  the 
extreme  end  of  the  sofa).  What  are  you  going  to  do, 
Dennis  ? 

DENNIS  (looking  at  them  thoughtfully,  his  chin  on  his 
/land].  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  It's  difficult.  I  don't  want 
to  do  anything  melodramatic.  I  mean  (to  KATE)  it 


THE  CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE  153 

wouldn't    really    help    matters    if    I    did    shoot    him, 
would  it  ? 

(KATE  looks  at  him  without  saying  anything,  trying 
to  understand  this  new  man  who  has  come  into 
her  life.  NORWOOD  swallows,  and  tries  very 
hard  to  say  something?) 

NORWOOD.  I — I 

DENNIS  (turning  to  him).   You  don't  think  so,  do  you  ? 

NORWOOD.  I — I 

DENNIS.  No,  I'm  quite  sure  you're  right.  It  wouldn't 
really  help.  It  is  difficult,  isn't  it  ?  You  see  (to  KATE) 
you  love  him — (he  waits  a  moment  for  her  to  say  it  if  she 
will,  but  she  only  looks  at  hint) — and  he  says  he  loves  you, 
but  at  the  same  time  I  am  your  husband.  .  .  .  (lie  walks 
up  and  down  thoughtfully,  and  then  says  suddenly  to  NOR- 
WOOD) I'll  tell  you  what — I'll  fight  you  for  her. 

NORWOOD  (trying  to  be  firm).  I  think  we'd  better  leave 
this  eighteenth-century  nonsense  out  of  it. 

DENNIS  (pleasantly).  They  fight  in  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury, too,  Mr.  Norwood.  Perhaps  you  hadn't  heard 
what  we've  been  doing  these  last  four  years  ?  Oh, 
quite  a  lot  of  it.  ...  Well  ? 

NORWOOD.  You  don't  wish  me  to  believe  that  you're 
serious  ? 

DENNIS.  Perfectly.  Swords,  pistols,  fists,  catch-as- 
catch-can — what  would  you  like  ? 

NORWOOD.  I  do  not  propose  to  indulge  in  an  undig- 
nified scuffle  for  the — er — lady  of  my  heart. 

DEXNIS  (cheerfully).  Nothing  doing  in  scuffles,  eh  ? 
All  right,  then,  I'll  toss  you  for  her. 

NORWOOD.  Now   you're    merely    being   vulgar.     (To 

KATE)  My  dear 

(She  motions  him  back  with  her  hand,  but  does  not 
take  her  eyes  off  DENNIS.) 

DENNIS.  Really,  Mr.  Norwood,  you're  a  little  hard  to 


154  THE  CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE 

please.  If  you  don't  like  my  suggestions,  perhaps  you 
will  make  one  of  your  own. 

NORWOOD.  This  is  obviously  a  matter  in  which  it  is 
for  the — er — lady  to  choose. 

DENNIS.  You  think  Mrs.  Camberley  should  choose 
between  us  ? 

NORWOOD.  Certainly. 

DENNIS.  What  do  you  say,  Kate  ? 

KATE.  You  are  very  generous,  Dennis. 

DENNIS  (after  a  pause).  Very  well,  you  shall  choose. 

NORWOOD  (complacently}.  Ah  ! 

DENNIS.  Wait  a  moment,  Mr.  Norwood.  (To  KATE) 
When  did  you  first  meet  him  ? 

KATE.  A  year  ago. 

DENNIS.  And  he's  been  making  love  to  you  for  a  year  ? 
(KATE  bends  her  head)  He's  been  making  love  to  you  for 
a  year  ? 

NORWOOD.  I  think,  sir,  that  the  sooner  the  lady  makes 

her  choice,  and  brings  this  distressing  scene  to  a  close 

After  all,  is  it  fair  to  her  to ? 

DENNIS.  Are  you  fair  to  me  ?  You've  been  making 
love  to  her  for  a  year.  /  made  love  to  her  for  a  fort- 
night— four  years  ago.  And  now  you  want  her  to 
choose  between  us.  Is  that  fair  ? 

NORWOOD.  You  hardly  expect  us  to  wait  a  year  before 
she  is  allowed  to  make  up  her  mind  ? 

DENNIS.  I  waited  four  years  for  her  out  there.  .  .  . 
However,  I  won't  ask  you  to  wait  a  year.  I'll  ask  you 
to  wait  for  five  minutes. 

KATE.  What  is  it  you  want  us  to  do,  Dennis  ? 

DENNIS.  I  want  you  to  listen  to  both  of  us,  for  five 
minutes  each  ;  that's  all.  After  all,  we're  your  suitors, 
aren't  we  ?  You're  going  to  choose  between  us.  Very 
well,  then,  you  must  hear  what  we  have  to  say.  Mr. 
Norwood  shall  have  five  minutes  alone  with  you  in 


THE  CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE  155 

which  to  present  his  case  ;  five  minutes  in  which  to 
tell  you  how  beautiful  you  are  .  .  .  and  how  rich  he  is 
.  .  .  and  how  happy  you'll  be  together.  And  I  shall 
have  my  five  minutes. 

NORWOOD  (sneering).  Five  minutes  in  which  to  tell  her 
lies  about  me,  eh  ? 

DENNIS.  Damn  it,  you've  had  a  whole  year  in  which 
to  tell  her  lies  about  yourself ;  you  oughtn't  to  grudge 
me  five  minutes.  (To  KATE)  Well  ? 

KATE.  I  agree,  Dennis. 

DENNIS.  Good.  (He  spins  a  coin,  puts  it  on  the  back  of 
his  hand,  and  says  to  NORWOOD)  Call  ! 

NORWOOD.  What  on  earth 

DENNIS.  Choice  of  innings. 

NORWOOD.  I  never  heard  of  anything  so — Tails. 

DENNIS  (uncovering  it).  Heads.  You  shall  have  first 
knock. 

NORWOOD  (bewildered).  What  do  you — I  don't — 

DENNIS.  You  have  five  minutes  in  which  to  lay  your 
case  before  Mrs.  Camberley.  (He  looks  at  his  rvatcti) 
Five  minutes — and  then  I  shall  come  back.  ...  Is 
there  a  fire  in  the  dining-room,  Kate  ? 

KATE  (smiling  in  spite  of  herself}.  A  gas-fire  ;  it  isn't 
lit. 

DENNIS.  Then  I  shall  light  it.  (To  NORWOOD)  That 
will  make  the  room  nice  and  warm  for  you  by  the  time 
you've  finished.  (He  goes  to  the  door  and  says  again) 
Five  minutes. 

(There  is  an  awkward  silence  after  he  is  gone. 
KATE  waits  for  NORWOOD  to  say  something,  but 
NORWOOD  doesn't  know  in  the  least  what  is 
expected  of  him.) 

NORWOOD  (looking  anxiously  at  the  door).  What's  the 
fellow's  game,  eh  f 

KATE.  Game  ? 


156  THE  CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE 

NORWOOD.  Yes      What's  he  up  to  ? 

KATE.  Is  he  up  to  anything  ? 

NORWOOD.  I  don't  like  it.  Why  the  devil  did  he 
choose  to-day  to  come  back  ?  If  he'd  waited  another 
week,  we'd  have  been  safely  away  together.  What's 
his  game,  I  wonder  ? 

(He  walks  up  and  down,  worrying  it  out.) 

KATE.  I  don't  think  he's  playing  a  game.  He's  just 
giving  me  my  chance. 

NORWOOD.  What  chance  ? 

KATE.  A  chance  to  decide  between  you. 

NORWOOD.  You've  decided  that,  Kate.  You've  had 
a  year  to  think  about  it  in,  and  you've  decided.  We 
love  each  other  ;  you're  coming  away  with  me  ;  that's 
all  settled.  Only  .  .  .  what  the  deuce  is  he  up  to  ? 

KATE  (sitting  down  and  talking  to  herself}.  You're  quite 
right  about  my  not  knowing  him.  .  .  .  How  one  rushed 
into  marriage  in  those  early  days  of  the  war — knowing 
nothing  about  each  other.  And  then  they  come  back, 
and  even  the  little  one  thought  one  did  know  is  different. 
...  I  suppose  he  feels  the  same  about  me. 

NORWOOD  (to  himself).  Damn  him  ! 

KATE  (after  a  pause).  Well,  Cyril  ? 

NORWOOD  (looking  sharply  round  at  her).  Well  ? 

KATE.  We  haven't  got  very  long. 

NORWOOD  (looking  at  his  watch).  He  really  means  to 
come  back — in  five  minutes  ? 

KATE.  You  heard  him  say  so. 

NORWOOD  (going  up  to  her  and  speaking  eagerly).  What's 
the  matter  with  slipping  out  now  ?  You've  got  a  hat 
here.  We  can  slip  out  quietly.  He  won't  hear  us. 
He'll  come  back  and  find  us  gone — well,  what  can  he 
do  ?  Probably  he'll  hang  about  for  a  bit  and  then  go 
to  his  club.  We'll  have  a  bit  of  dinner  ;  ring  up  your 
maid  ;  get  her  to  meet  you  with  some  things,  and  go 


THE  CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE  157 

off  by  the  night  mail.  Scotland — anywhere  you  like. 
Let  the  whole  business  simmer  down  a  bit.  We  don't 
want  any  melodramatic  eighteenth-century  nonsense. 

KATE.  Go  out  now,  and  not  wait  for  him  to  have  his 
five  minutes  ? 

NORWOOD  (impatiently).  What  does  he  want  with  five 
minutes  ?  What's  the  good  of  it  to  him  ?  Just  to  take 
a  pathetic  farewell  of  you,  and  pretend  that  you've 
ruined  his  life,  when  all  the  time  he's  chuckling  in  his 
sleeve  at  having  got  rid  of  you  so  easily.  /  know  these 
young  fellows.  Some  Major's  wife  in  India  is  what 
he's  got  his  eye  on.  ...  Or  else  he'll  try  fooling  around 
with  the  hands-up  business.  You  don't  want  to  be 
mixed  up  with  any  scandal  of  that  sort.  No,  the  best 
thing  we  can  do — I'm  speaking  for  your  sake,  Kate — 
is  to  slip  off  quietly,  while  we've  got  the  chance.  We 
can  write  and  explain  all  that  we  want  to  explain. 

KATE  (looking  rvonderingly  at  him — another  man  whom 
she  doesn't  know}.  Is  that  playing  quite  fair  to  Dennis  ? 

NORWOOD.  Good  Lord,  this  isn't  a  game  !  Camberley 
may  think  so  with  his  tossing-up  and  all  the  rest  of  it, 
but  you  and  I  aren't  children.  Everything's  fair  in  a 
case  like  this.  Put  your  hat  on — quickly — (lie  gets  it 
for  her) — here  you  are 

KATE  (standing  up).  I'm  not  sure,  Cyril. 

NORWOOD.  What  d'you  mean  ? 

KATE.  He  expects  me  to  wait  for  him. 

NORWOOD.  If  it  comes  to  that,  he  expected  you  to 
wait  for  him  four  years  ago. 

KATE.  Yes.  .  .  .  (Quietly)  Thank  you  for  reminding 
me. 

NORWOOD.  Kate,  don't  be  stupid.  What's  happened 
to  you  ?  Of  course,  I  know  it's  been  beastly  upsetting 
for  you,  all  this — but  then,  why  do  you  want  to  go  on 
with  it  ?  Why  do  you  want  more  upsetting  scenes  ? 


158  THE  CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE 

You've  got  a  chance  now  of  getting  out  of  it  all,  and 

(He  looks  at  his  watch)  Good  Lord  ! 

KATE.  Is  the  five  minutes  over  ? 

NORWOOD.  Quick,  quick  !  (He  puts  his  finger g  to  his 
lips')  Quietly.  (He  walks  on  tiptoe  to  the  door.) 

KATE.  Cyril ! 

NORWOOD.  H'sh  ! 

KATE  (sitting  down  again).  It's  no  good,  Cyril,  I  must 
wait  for  him. 

(The  door  opens,  and  NORWOOD  starts  back  quickly 
as  DENNIS  comes  in.) 

DENNIS  (looking  at  his  watch}.  Innings  declared  closed. 
(To  NORWOOD)  The  dining-room  is  nicely  warmed  now, 
and  I've  left  you  an  evening  paper. 

NORWOOD  (going  to  KATE).  Look  here,  Mr.  Camberley, 
Kate  and  I 

DENNIS.  Mrs.  Camberley,  no  doubt,  will  tell  me. 

(lie  holds   the  door   open   and  waits  politely  for 
NORWOOD  to  go.) 

NORWOOD.  I  don't  know  what  your  game  is 

DENNIS.  You've  never  been  in  Mesopotamia,  Mr. 
Norwood  ? 

NORWOOD.  Never. 

DENNIS.  It's  a  very  trying  place  for  the  temper.  .  .  . 
I'm  waiting  for  you. 

NORWOOD  (irresolute).  Well,  I (He  comes  sulkily 

to  the  door)  Well,  I  shall  come  back  for  Kate  in  five 
minutes. 

DENNIS.  Mrs.  Camberley  and  I  will  be  ready  for  you. 
You  know  your  way  ? 

[NORWOOD  goes  out. 

(DENNIS  shuts  the  door.     He  comes  into  the  room 
and  stands  looking  at  KATE.) 

KATE  (uncomfortably).  Well  ? 

DENNIS.  No,  don't  move.     I  just  want  to  look  at  you. 


THE  CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE  159 

.  .  .  I've  seen  you  like  that  for  four  years.  Don't  move. 
.  .  .  I've  been  in  some  dreary  places,  but  you've  been 
with  me  most  of  the  time.  Just  let's  have  a  last  look. 

KATE.  A  last  look  ? 

DENNIS.  Yes. 

KATE.  You're  saying  good-bye  to  me  ? 

DENNIS.  I  don't  know  whether  it's  to  you,  Kate.  To 
the  girl  who  has  been  with  me  these  last  four  years. 
Was  that  you  ? 

KATE  (dropping  her  eyes).  I  don't  know,  Dennis. 

DENNIS.  I  wish  to  God  I  wasn't  your  husband. 

KATE.  What  would  you  do  if  you  weren't  my  hus- 
band ? 

DENNIS.  Make  love  to  you. 

KATE.  Can't  you  do  that  now  ? 

DENNIS.  Being  your  husband  rather  handicaps  me, 
you  know.  I  never  really  stood  a  chance  against  the 
other  fellow. 

KATE.  I  was  to  choose  between  you,  you  said.  You 
think  that  I  have  already  made  up  my  mind  ? 

DENNIS  (smiling).  I  think  so. 

KATE.  And  chosen  him  ? 

DENNIS  (shaking  his  head].  Oh,  no  ! 

KATE  (surprised).  You  think  I  have  chosen  you  ? 

DENNIS  (nodding).  M'm. 

KATE  (indignantly).  Really,  Dennis  !  Considering 
that  I  had  practically  arranged  to  run  away  with  him 
twenty  minutes  ago  !  You  must  think  me  very  fickle. 

DENNIS    Not  fickle.     Imaginative. 

KATE.  What  do  you  mean  ?  And  why  are  you  so 
certain  that  1  am  going  to  choose  you  ?  And  why  in 
that  case  did  you  talk  about  taking  a  last  look  at  me  ? 
And  what ? 

DENNIS.  Of  course,  we've  only  got  five  minutes,  but 
I  think  that  if  you  asked  your  questions  one  at  a  time 


160  THE  CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE 

KATE  (smiling).  Well,  you  needn't  answer  them  all 
together. 

DENNIS.  All  right  then,  one  at  a  time.  Why  am  I 
certain  that  you  will  choose  me  ?  Because  for  the  first 
time  in  your  life  you  have  just  been  alone  with  Mr. 
Cyril  Norwood.  That's  what  I  meant  by  saying  you 
were  imaginative.  The  Norwood  you've  been  thinking 
yourself  in  love  with  doesn't  exist.  I'm  certain  that 
you've  seen  him  for  the  first  time  in  these  last  few 
minutes.  Why,  the  Archangel  Gabriel  would  have 
made  a  hash  of  a  five  minutes  like  that ;  it  would  have 
been  impossible  for  him  to  have  said  the  right  thing  to 
you.  Norwood  ?  Good  Lord,  he  didn't  stand  a  chance. 
You  were  judging  him  all  the  time,  weren't  you  ? 

KATE  (thoughtfully").  You're  very  clever,  Dennis. 

DENNIS  (cheerfully).  Four  years'  study  of  the  Turkish 
character. 

KATE.  But  how  do  you  know  I'm  not  judging  you 
all  the  time  ? 

DENNIS.  Of  course  you  are.  But  there's  all  the 
difference  in  the  world  between  judging  a  stranger  like 
me,  and  judging  the  man  you  thought  you  were  in 
love  with. 

KATE.  You  are  a  stranger  to  me. 

DENNIS.  I  know.  That's  why  I  said  good-bye  to  the 
girl  who  had  been  with  me  these  last  four  years,  the 
girl  I  had  married.  Well,  I've  said  good-bye  to  her. 
You're  not  my  wife  any  longer,  Kate  ;  but  if  you  don't 
mind  pretending  that  I'm  not  your  husband,  and  just 
give  me  a  chance  of  making  love  to  you — well,  that's 
all  I  want. 

KATE.  You're  very  generous,  Dennis. 

DENNIS.  No,  I'm  not.  I'm  very  much  in  love  ;  and 
for  a  man  very  much  in  love  I'm  being  rather  less  of  a 
silly  ass  than  usual.  Why  should  you  love  me  ?  You 


THE  CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE  161 

fell  in  love  with  my  uniform  at  the  beginning  of  the 
war.  I  was  ordered  out,  and  you  fell  in  love  with  the 
departing  hero.  After  that  ?  Well,  I  had  four  years 
— alone — in  which  to  think  about  you,  and  you  had  four 
years — with  other  men — in  which  to  forget  me.  Is  it 

any  wonder  that ? 

(NORWOOD  comes  in.) 

NORWOOD  (roughly).  Well  ? 

DENNIS.  You  arrive  just  in  time,  Mr.  Norwood.  I 
was  talking  too  much.  (To  KATE)  Mrs.  Camberley,  we 
are  both  at  your  disposal.  Will  you  choose  between 
us,  which  one  is  to  have  the  happiness  of — serving  you  ? 

NORWOOD  (holding  out  his  hand  to  her,  and  speaking  in 
the  voice  of  the  proprietor).  Kate  ! 

(KATE  goes  slowly  up  to  him  with  her  hand  held  out.) 

KATE  (shaking  NORWOOD'S  hand).  Good-bye,  Mr. 
Norwood. 

NORWOOD  (astounded).  Kate  !    (To  DENNIS)  You  devil ! 

DENNIS.  And  only  a  moment  ago  I  was  comparing 
you  to  the  Archangel  Gabriel. 

NORWOOD  (sneeringly  to  KATE).  So  you're  going  to  be 
a  loving  wife  to  him  after  all  ? 

DENNIS  (tapping  him  kindly  on  the  shoulder).  You'll 
remember  what  I  said  about  Mesopotamia  ? 

NORWOOD  (pulling  himself  together  hastily).  Good-bye, 
Mrs.  Camberley.  I  can  only  hope  that  you  will  be 
happy. 

(He  goes  out  with  dignity.) 

DENNIS  (closing  the  door).  Well,  there  we  agree. 

(He  comes  back  to  her.) 

KATE.  What  a  stupid  little  fool  I  have  been.  (She 
holds  out  her  arms  to  him)  Dennis  ! 

DENNIS  (retreating  in  mock  alarm).  Oh  no,  you  don't  ! 
(He  shakes  a  finger  at  her)  WTe're  not  going  to  rush  it 
this  time. 


162  THE  CAMBERLEY  TRIANGLE 

KATE  (reproachfully).  Dennis  ! 

DENNIS.  I  think  you  should  call  me  Mr.  Camberley. 

KATE  (with  a  smile).  Mr.  Cainberley. 

DENNIS.  That's  better.  Now  our  courtship  begins. 
(Boning  lotv)  Madam,  will  you  do  me  the  great  honour 
of  dining  with  me  this  evening  ? 

KATE  (curtseying).  I  shall  be  charmed. 

DENNIS.  Then  let  us  hasten.     The  carriage  waits. 

KATE  (holding  up  the  two  hats).  Which  of  these  two 
chapeaux  do  you  prefer,  Mr.  Camberley  ? 

DENNIS.  Might  I  express  a  preference  for  the  black 
one  with  the  pink  roses  ? 

KATE.  It  is  very  elegant,  is  it  not  ?    (She  puts  it  on.") 

DENNIS.  Vastly  becoming,  upon  my  life.  ...  I  might 
mention  that  I  am  staying  at  the  club.  Is  your  ladyship 
doing  anything  to-morrow  ? 

KATE.  Nothing  of  any  great  importance. 

(He  offers  his  arm  and  she  takes  it.} 

DENNIS  (as  they  go  to  the  door).  Then  perhaps  I  may 
be  permitted  to  call  round  to-morrow  morning  about 
eleven,  and  make  inquiries  as  to  your  ladyship's  health. 

KATE.  It  would  be  very  obliging  of  you,  sir. 

[They  go  out  together. 


THE   ROMANTIC   AGE 

A  COMEDY   IN   THREE  ACTS 


163 


CHARACTERS 

HENRY  KNOWLE. 

MARY  KNOWLE  (his  wife). 

MELISANDE  (his  daughter). 

JANE  BAGOT  (his  niece). 

BOBBY  COOTE. 

GERVASE  MALLORY. 

ERN. 

GENTLEMAN  SUSAN. 

ALICE. 


ACT  I 

The  hall  of  MR.  KNOWLE 's  house.     Evening. 

ACT  II 

A  glade  in  the  mood.     Morning. 

ACT  III 

The  hall  again.     Afternoon. 


THIS  play  was  first  produced  by  Mr.  Arthur  Wontner 
at  the  Comedy  Theatre  on  October  18,  1920,  with  the 
following  cast  : 

Henry  Knorvle  -  A.  BROMLEY-DAVENPORT. 

Mary  Knotvle  -  LOTTIE  VENNE. 

Melisande      -  -  BARBARA  HOFFE. 

Jane      -  DOROTHY  TETLEY. 

Bobby   -         -  -  JOHN  WILLIAMS. 

Gervase  Mallory  -  ARTHUR  WONTNER. 

Em       -  -  ROY  LEXNOL. 

Gentleman  Susan  -  H.  O.  NICHOLSON. 

Alice     -  IRENE  RATHBONE. 
1G4 


THE   ROMANTIC   AGE 

ACT  I 

We  are  looking  at  the  inner  hall  of  MR.  HENRY  KNOWLE'S 
country  house,  at  about  9.15  of  a  June  evening.  There 
are  doors  R.  and  L. — on  the  right  leading  to  the 
drawing-room,  on  the  left  to  the  entrance  hall,  the 
dining-room  and  the  library.  At  the  back  are  windows 
— French  windows  on  the  right,  then  an  interval  of 
wall,  then  casement  windows. 

MRS.  HENRY  KNOWLE,  her  daughter,  MELISANDE,  and  her 
niece,  JANE  BAGOT,  are  waiting  for  their  coffee.  MRS. 
KNOWLE,  short  and  stoutish,  is  reclining  on  the  sofa  ; 
JANE,  pleasant-looking  and  rather  obviously  pretty,  is 
sitting  in  a  chair  near  her,  glancing  at  a  book ; 
MELISANDE,  the  beautiful,  the  romantic,  is  standing  by 
the  open  French  windows,  gazing  into  the  night. 

ALICE,  the  parlourmaid,  comes  in  with  the  coffee.  She 
stands  in  front  of  MRS.  KNOWLE,  a  little  embarrassed 
because  MRS.  KNOWLE'S  eyes  are  closed.  She  waits 
there  uniil  JANE  looks  up  from  her  book. 

JANE.  Aunt  Mary,  dear,  are  you  having  coffee  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (opening  her  eyes  with  a  start).  Coffee. 
Oh,  yes,  coffee.     Jane,  put  the  milk  in  for  me.     And 
no  sugar.    Dr.  Anderson  is  very  firm  about  that.    "  No 
sugar,  Mrs.  Knowle,"  he  said.     "  Oh,  Dr.  Anderson  ! 
I  said. 

165 


166  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  i 

(ALICE  has  taken  the  tray  to  JANE,  who  pours  out 
her  own  and  her  aunt's  coffee,  and  takes  her 
cup  off  the  tray.) 
JANE.  Thank  you. 

(ALICE  takes  ike  tray  to  MRS.  KNOWLE.) 
MRS.  KNOWLE.  Thank  you. 

(ALICE  goes  over  to  MELISANDE,  who  says  nothing,  but 

naves  her  away.) 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (as  soon  as  ALICE  is  gone).  Jane  1 
JANE.  Yes,  Aunt  Mary  ? 
MRS.  KNOWLE.  Was  my  mouth  open  ? 
JANE.  Oh,  no,  Aunt  Mary. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Ah,  I'm  glad  of  that.  It's  so  bad  for 
the  servants.  (She finishes  her  coffee.) 

JANE  (getting  up).  Shall  I  put  it  down  for  you  ? 
MRS.  KNOWLE.  Thank  you,  dear. 

(JANE  puts  the  two  cups  down  and  goes  back  to  her 
book.    MRS.  KNOWLE  fidgets  a  little  on  her  sofa.) 
MRS.  KNOWLE.  Sandy  !    (There  is  no  answer)  Sandy  ! 
JANE.  Melisande  ! 

(MELISANDE  turns  round  and  comes  slowly  towards 

her  mother.) 

MELISANDE.  Did  you  call  me,  Mother  ? 
MRS.    KNOWLE.  Three    times,    darling.      Didn't    you 
hear  me  ? 

MELISANDE.  I  am  sorry,  Mother,  I  was  thinking  of 
other  things. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  You  think  too  much,  dear.  You 
remember  what  the  great  poet  tells  us.  "  Do  noble 
things,  not  dream  them  all  day  long."  Tennyson, 
wasn't  it  ?  I  know  I  wrote  it  in  your  album  for  you 
when  you  were  a  little  girl.  It's  so  true. 

MELISANDE.  Kingsley,  Mother,  not  Tennyson. 

JANE  (nodding).  Kingsley,  that's  right. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Well,  it's  the  same  thing.     I  know 


ACT  i]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  167 

when  my  mother  used  to  call  me  I  used  to  come  running 
up,  saying,  "  What  is  it,  Mummy,  darling  ?  "  And  even 
if  it  was  anything  upstairs,  like  a  handkerchief  or  a 
pair  of  socks  to  be  mended,  I  used  to  trot  off  happily, 
saying  to  myself,  "  Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them 
all  day  long." 

MELISANDE.  I  am  sorry,  Mother.  What  is  the  noble 
thing  you  want  doing  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Well  now,  you  see,  I've  forgotten.  If 
only  you'd  come  at  once,  dear 

MELISANDE.  I  was  looking  out  into  the  night.  It's  a 
wonderful  night.  Midsummer  Night. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Midsummer  Night.  And  now  I 
suppose  the  days  will  start  drawing  in,  and  we  shall 
have  winter  upon  us  before  we  know  where  we  are. 
All  these  changes  of  the  seasons  are  very  inconsiderate 
to  an  invalid.  Ah,  now  I  remember  what  I  wanted, 
dear.  Can  you  find  me  another  cushion  ?  Dr.  Anderson 
considers  it  most  important  that  the  small  of  the  back 
should  be  well  supported  after  a  meal.  (Indicating  the 
place)  Just  here,  dear. 

JANE  (jumping  up  with  the  cushion  from  her  chair).  Let 
me,  Aunt  Mary. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Thank  you,  Jane.     Just  here,  please. 

(JANE  arranges  it.) 

JANE.  Is  that  right  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Thank  you,  dear.  I  only  do  it  for  Dr. 
Anderson's  sake. 

(JANE  goes  back  to  her  book  and  MELISANDE  goes 
back  to  her  Midsummer  Night.  There  is 
silence  for  a  little.) 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Oh,  Sandy  .  .  .  Sandy  ! 

JANE.  Melisande  ! 

MELISANDE  (coming  patiently  down  to  theni).  Yes, 
Mother  ? 


168  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  i 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Oh,  Sandy,  I've  just  remembered 

(MELISANDE  shudders?)  What  is  it,  darling  child  ?  Are 
you  cold  ?  That  comes  of  standing  by  the  open  window 
in  a  treacherous  climate  like  this.  Close  the  window 
and  come  and  sit  down  properly. 

MELISANDE.  It's  a  wonderful  night,  Mother.  Mid- 
summer Night.  I'm  not  cold. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  But  you  shuddered.  I  distinctly  saw 
you  shudder.  Didn't  you  see  her,  Jane  ? 

JANE.  I'm  afraid  I  wasn't  looking,  Aunt  Mary. 

MELISANDE.  I  didn't  shudder  because  I  was  cold.  I 
shuddered  because  you  will  keep  calling  me  by  that 
horrible  name.  I  shudder  every  time  I  hear  it. 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (surprised).  What  name,  Sandy  ? 

MELISANDE.  There  it  is  again.  Oh,  why  did  you 
christen  me  by  such  a  wonderful,  beautiful,  magical 
name  as  Melisande,  if  you  were  going  to  call  me  Sandy  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Well,  dear,  as  I  think  I've  told  you, 
that  was  a  mistake  of  your  father's.  I  suppose  he  got 
it  out  of  some  book.  I  should  certainly  never  have 
agreed  to  it,  if  I  had  heard  him  distinctly.  I  thought 
he  said  Millicent — after  your  Aunt  Milly.  And  not 
being  very  well  at  the  time,  and  leaving  it  all  to  him, 
I  never  really  knew  about  it  until  it  was  too  late  to 
do  anything.  I  did  say  to  your  father,  "  Can't  we 
christen  her  again  ?  "  But  there  was  nothing  in  the 
prayer  book  about  it  except  "  riper  years,"  and  nobody 
seemed  to  know  when  riper  years  began.  Besides,  we 
were  all  calling  you  Sandy  then.  I  think  Sandy  is  a  very 
pretty  name,  don't  you,  Jane  ? 

JANE.  Oh,  but  don't  you  think  Melisande  is  beautiful, 
Aunt  Mary  ?  I  mean  really  beautiful. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Well,  it  never  seems  to  me  quite 
respectable,  not  for  a  nicely-brought-up  young  girl  in 
a  Christian  house.  It  makes  me  think  of  the  sort  of 


ACT  i]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  169 

person  who  meets  a  strange  young  man  to  whom  she 
has  never  been  introduced,  and  talks  to  him  in  a  forest 
with  her  hair  coming  down.  They  find  her  afterwards 
floating  in  a  pool.  Not  at  all  the  thing  one  wants  for 
one's  daughter. 

JANE.  Oh,  but  how  thrilling  it  sounds  ! 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Well,  I  think  you  are  safer  with  "  Jane," 
dear.  Your  mother  knew  what  she  was  about.  And 
if  I  can  save  my  only  child  from  floating  in  a  pool  by 
calling  her  Sandy,  I  certainly  think  it  is  my  duty  to 
do  so. 

MELISANDE  (to  herself  ecstatically).     Melisande  ! 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (to  MELISANDE).  Oh,  and  talking  about 
floating  in  a  pool  reminds  me  about  the  bread-sauce  at 
dinner  to-night.  You  heard  what  your  father  said  ? 
You  must  give  cook  a  good  talking  to  in  the  morning. 
She  has  been  getting  very  careless  lately.  I  don't  know 
what's  come  over  her. 

MELISANDE.  I've  come  over  her.  When  you  were  over 
her,  everything  was  all  right.  You  know  all  about 
housekeeping  ;  you  take  an  interest  in  it.  I  don't. 
I  hate  it.  How  can  you  expect  the  house  to  be  run 
properly  when  they  all  know  I  hate  it  ?  Why  did  you 
ever  give  it  up  and  make  me  do  it  when  you  know  how 
I  hate  it  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Well,  you  must  learn  not  to  hate  it. 
I'm  sure  Jane  here  doesn't  hate  it,  and  her  mother  is 
always  telling  me  what  a  great  help  she  is. 

MELISANDE  (warningly}.  It's  no  good  your  saying 
you  like  it,  Jane,  after  what  you  told  me  yester- 
day. 

JANE.  I  don't  like  it,  but  it  doesn't  make  me  miserable 
doing  it.  But  then  I'm  different.  I'm  not  romantic  like 
Melisande. 

MELISANDE.  One  doesn't  need  to  be  very  romantic 


170  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  i 

not  to  want  to  talk  about  bread-sauce.  Bread-sauce  on 
a  night  like  this  ! 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Well,  I'm  only  thinking  of  you,  Sandy, 
not  of  myself.  If  I  thought  about  myself  I  should 
disregard  all  the  warnings  that  Dr.  Anderson  keeps 
giving  me,  and  I  should  insist  on  doing  the  house- 
keeping just  as  I  always  used  to.  But  I  have  to  think 
of  you.  I  want  to  see  you  married  to  some  nice,  steady 
young  man  before  I  die — my  handkerchief,  Jane — (JANK 
gets  up  and  gives  her  her  handkerchief  from  the  other  end 
of  the  sofa) — before  I  die  (she  touches  her  eyes  with  tier 
handkerchief},  and  no  nice  young  man  will  want  to  marry 
you,  if  you  haven't  learnt  how  to  look  after  his  house 
for  him. 

MELISANDE  (contemptuously) .  If  that's  marriage,  I  shall 
never  get  married. 

JANE  (shocked}.  Melisande,  darling  ! 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Dr.  Anderson  was  saying,  only  yester- 
day, trying  to  make  me  more  cheerful,  "  Why,  Mrs. 
Knowle,"  he  said,  "  you'll  live  another  hundred  years 
yet."  "  Dr.  Anderson,"  I  said,  "  I  don't  want  to  live 
another  hundred  years.  I  only  want  to  live  until  my 
dear  daughter,  Melisande  " — I  didn't  say  Sandy  to 
him  because  it  seemed  rather  familiar — "  I  only  want 
to  live  until  my  daughter  Melisande  is  happily  married 
to  some  nice,  steady  young  man.  Do  this  for  me,  Dr. 
Anderson,"  I  said,  "  and  I  shall  be  your  lifelong 
debtor."  He  promised  to  do  his  best.  It  was  then 
that  he  mentioned  about  the  cushion  in  the  small  of 
the  back  after  meals.  And  so  don't  forget  to  tell  cook 
about  the  bread-sauce,  will  you,  dear  ? 

MELISANDE.  I  will  tell  her,  Mother. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  That's  right.  I  like  a  man  to  be 
interested  in  his  food.  I  hope  both  your  husbands, 
Sandy  and  Jane,  will  take  a  proper  interest  in  what 


ACT  i]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  171 

they  eat.  You  will  find  that,  after  you  have  been 
married  some  years,  and  told  each  other  everything 
you  did  and  saw  before  you  met,  there  isn't  really 
anything  to  talk  about  at  meals  except  food.  And  you 
must  talk ;  I  hope  you  will  both  remember  that. 
Nothing  breaks  up  the  home  so  quickly  as  silent  meals. 
Of  course,  breakfast  doesn't  matter,  because  he  has 
his  paper  then  ;  and  after  you  have  said,  "  Is  there 
anything  in  the  paper,  dear  ?  "  and  he  has  said, "  No," 
then  he  doesn't  expect  anything  more.  I  wonder 
sometimes  why  they  go  on  printing  the  newspapers. 
I've  been  married  twenty  years,  and  there  has  never 
been  anything  in  the  paper  yet. 

MELISANDE.  Oh,  Mother,  I  hate  to  hear  you  talking 
about  marriage  like  that.  Wasn't  there  ever  any  kind 
of  romance  between  you  and  Father  ?  Not  even  when 
he  was  wooing  you  ?  Wasn't  there  ever  one  magic 
Midsummer  morning  when  you  saw  suddenly  "  a 
livelier  emerald  twinkle  in  the  grass,  a  purer  sapphire 
melt  into  the  sea  "  ?  Wasn't  there  ever  one  passionate 
ecstatic  moment  when  "  once  he  drew  with  one  long 
kiss  my  whole  soul  through  my  lips,  as  sunlight  drinketh 
dew  "  ?  Or  did  you  talk  about  bread-sauce  all  the  time  ? 

JANE  (eagerly}.  Tell  us  about  it,  Aunt  Mary. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Well,  dear,  there  isn't  very  much  to 
tell.  I  am  quite  sure  that  we  never  drank  dew  together, 
or  anything  like  that,  as  Sandy  suggests,  and  it  wasn't 
by  the  sea  at  all,  it  was  at  Surbiton.  He  used  to  come 
down  from  London  with  his  racquet  and  play  tennis 
with  us.  And  then  he  would  stay  on  to  supper  some- 
times, and  then  after  supper  we  would  go  into  the 
garden  together — it  was  quite  dark  then,  but  everything 
smelt  so  beautifully,  I  shall  always  remember  it- — and 
we  talked,  oh,  I  don't  know  what  about,  but  I  knew 
somehow  that  I  should  marry  him  one  day.  I  don't 


172  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  i 

think  he  knew — he  wasn't  sure — and  then  he  came  to 
a  subscription  dance  one  evening — I  think  Mother, 
your  grandmother,  guessed  that  that  was  to  be  my 
great  evening,  because  she  was  very  particular  about 
my  dress,  and  I  remember  she  sent  me  upstairs  again 
before  we  started,  because  I  hadn't  got  the  right  pair 
of  shoes  on — rather  a  tight  pair — however,  I  put  them 
on.  And  there  was  a  hansom  outside  the  hall,  and  it 
was  our  last  dance  together,  and  he  said,  "  Shall  we 
sit  it  out,  Miss  Bagot  ?  "  Well,  of  course,  I  was  only 
too  glad  to,  and  we  sat  it  out  in  the  hansom,  driving  all 
round  Surbiton,  and  what  your  grandmother  would 
have  said  I  don't  know,  but,  of  course,  I  never  told  her. 
And  when  we  got  home  after  the  dance,  I  went  up  to 
her  room — as  soon  as  I'd  got  my  shoes  off — and  said, 
"  Mother,  I  have  some  wonderful  news  for  you,"  and 
she  said,  "  Not  Mr.  Knowle — Henry  ?  "  and  I  said, 
"  "M,"  rather  bright-eyed  you  know,  and  wanting  to 
cry.  And  she  said,  "  Oh,  my  darling  child  !  "  and — 
Jane,  where's  my  handkerchief?  (It  has  dropped  off 
the  sofa  and  JANE  picks  it  up}  Thank  you,  dear.  (She 
dabs  her  eyes)  Well,  that's  really  all,  you  know,  except 
that — (she  dabs  her  eyes  again) — I'm  afraid  I'm  feeling 
rather  overcome.  I'm  sure  Dr.  Anderson  would  say 
it  was  very  bad  for  me  to  feel  overcome.  Your  poor 
dear  grandmother.  Jane,  dear,  why  did  you  ask  me 
to  tell  you  all  this  ?  I  must  go  away  and  compose 
myself  before  your  uncle  and  Mr.  Coote  come  in.  I 
don't  know  what  I  should  do  if  Mr.  Coote  saw  me  like 
this.  (She  begins  to  get  up]  And  after  calling  me  a 
Spartan  Mother  only  yesterday,  because  I  said  that  if 
any  nice,  steady  young  man  came  along  and  took  mv 
own  dear  little  girl  away  from  me,  I  should  bear  the 
terrible  wrench  in  silence  rather  than  cause  either  of 
them  a  moment's  remorse.  (She  is  up  norv)  There  ! 


ACT  i]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  173 

JANE.  Shall  I  come  with  you  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  No,  dear,  not  just  now.  Let  me  be 
by  myself  for  a  little.  (She  turns  back  suddenly  at  the 
door)  Oh  !  Perhaps  later  on,  when  the  men  come  from 
the  dining-room,  dear  Jane,  you  might  join  me,  with 
your  Uncle  Henry — if  the  opportunity  occurs.  .  .  . 
But  only  if  it  occurs,  of  course. 

[She  goes. 

JANE  (coming  back  to  the  sofa).  Poor  Aunt  Mary  ! 
It  always  seems  so  queer  that  one's  mother  and  aunts 
and  people  should  have  had  their  romances  too. 

MELISANDE.  Do  you  call  that  romance,  Jane  ?  Tennis 
and  subscription  dances  and  wearing  tight  shoes  ? 

JANE  (awkwardly).  Well,  no,  darling,  not  romance  of 
course,  but  you  know  what  I  mean. 

MELISANDE.  Just  think  of  the  commonplace  little 
story  which  mother  has  just  told  us,  and  compare  it 
with  any  of  the  love-stories  of  history.  Isn't  it  pitiful, 
Jane,  that  people  should  be  satisfied  now  with  so  little  ? 

JANE.  Yes,  darling,  very,  very  sad,  but  I  don't  think 
Aunt  Mary 

MELISANDE.  I  am  not  blaming  Mother.  It  is  the  same 
almost  everywhere  nowadays.  There  is  no  romance 
left. 

JANE.  No,  darling.  Of  course,  I  am  not  romantic 
like  you,  but  I  do  agree  with  you.  It  is  very  sad. 
Somehow  there  is  no — (she  searches  for  the  right  word) 
— no  romance  left. 

MELISANDE.  Just  think  of  the  average  marriage.  It 
makes  one  shudder. 

JANE  (doing  her  best).  Positively  shudder  ! 

MELISAXDE.  He  meets  Her  at — (she  shudders) — a  sub- 
scription dance,  or  a  tennis  party — (she  shudders  again) 
or — at  golf.  He  calls  upon  her  mother — perhaps  in  a 
top  hat— perhaps  (tragically)  even  in  a  bowler  hat. 


174  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  i 

JANE.  A  bowler  hat  !     One  shudders. 

MELISANDE.  Her  mother  makes  tactful  inquiries  about 
his  income — discovers  that  he  is  a  nice,  steady  young 
man — and  decides  that  he  shall  marry  her  daughter. 
He  is  asked  to  come  again,  he  is  invited  to  parties  ;  it  is 
understood  that  he  is  falling  in  love  with  the  daughter. 
The  rest  of  the  family  are  encouraged  to  leave  them 
alone  together — if  the  opportunity  occurs,  Jane.  (Con- 
temptuously} But,  of  course,  only  if  it  occurs. 

JANE  (awkwardly).  Yes,  dear. 

MELISANDE.  One  day  he  proposes  to  her. 

JANE  (to  herself  ecstatically).  Oh  ! 

MELISANDE.  He  stutters  out  a  few  unbeautiful  words 
which  she  takes  to  be  a  proposal.  She  goes  and  tells 
Mother.  He  goes  and  tells  Father.  They  are  engaged. 
They  talk  about  each  other  as  "  my  fiance"."  Perhaps 
they  are  engaged  for  months  and  months 

JANE.  Years  and  years  sometimes,  Melisande. 

MELISANDE.  For  years  and  years — and  wherever  they 
go,  people  make  silly  little  jokes  about  them,  and  cough 
very  loudly  if  they  go  into  a  room  where  the  two  of 
them  are.  And  then  they  get  married  at  last,  and 
everybody  comes  and  watches  them  get  married,  and 
makes  more  silly  jokes,  and  they  go  away  for  Avhat  they 
call  a  honeymoon,  and  they  tell  everybody — they  shout 
it  out  in  the  newspapers— where  they  are  going  for  their 
honeymoon ;  and  then  they  come  back  and  start 
talking  about  bread-sauce.  Oh,  Jane,  it's  horrible. 

JANE.  Horrible,  darling.  (With  a  French  air}  But  what 
would  you  ? 

MELISANDE  (in  a  low  thrilling  voice).  What  would  I  ? 
Ah,  what  would  I,  Jane  ? 

JANE.  Because  you  see,  Sandy  —  I  mean  Meli- 
sande— you  see,  darling,  this  is  the  twentieth  century, 
and — — 


ACT  i]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  175 

MELISANDE.  Sometimes  I  see  him  clothed  in  mail, 
riding  beneath  my  lattice  window. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewelled  shone  the  saddle  leather, 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet  feather 
Burned  like  one  burning  flame  together, 
As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 

And  from  his  blazoned  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armour  rung 
As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 

JANE.  I  know,  dear.  But  of  course  they  don't  now- 
adays. 

MELISANDE.  And  as  he  rides  beneath  my  room, 
singing  to  himself,  I  wave  one  lily  hand  to  him  from  my 
lattice,  and  toss  him  down  a  gage,  a  gage  for  him  to 
wear  in  his  helm,  a  rose — perhaps  just  a  rose. 

JANE  (awed).  No,  Melisande,  would  you  really  ? 
Wave  a  lily  hand  to  him  ?  (She  waves  one]  I  mean, 
wouldn't  it  be  rather— -you  know.  Rather  forward. 

MELISANDE.  Forward  ! 

JANE  (upset).  Well,  I  mean Well,  of  course,  I 

suppose  it  was  different  in  those  days. 

MELISANDE.  How  else  could  he  know  that  I  loved  him  ? 
How  else  could  he  wear  my  gage  in  his  helm  when  he 
rode  to  battle  ? 

JANE.  Well,  of  course,  there  is  that. 

MELISANDE.  And  then  when  he  has  slain  his  enemies 
in  battle,  he  comes  back  to  me.  I  knot  my  sheets 
together  so  as  to  form  a  rope — for  I  have  been  immured 
in  my  room — and  1  let  myself  down  to  him.  He  places 
me  on  the  saddle  in  front  of  him,  and  we  ride  forth 
together  into  the  world — together  for  always  1 


176  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  i 

JANE  (a  little  uncomfortably).  You  do  get  married,  I 
suppose,  darling,  or  do  you — er 

MELISANDE.  We  stop  at  a  little  hermitage  on  the  way, 
and  a  good  priest  marries  us. 

JANE  (relieved).  Ah,  yes. 

MELISANDE.  And  sometimes  he  is  not  in  armour.  He 
is  a  prince  from  Fairyland.  My  father  is  king  of  a 
neighbouring  country,  a  country  which  is  sorely  troubled 
by  a  dragon. 

JANE.  By  a  what,  dear  ? 

MELISANDE.  A  dragon. 

JANE.  Oh,  yes,  of  course. 

MELISANDE.  The  king,  my  father,  offers  my  hand 
and  half  his  kingdom  to  anybody  who  will  slay  the 
monster.  A  prince  who  happens  to  be  passing  through 
the  country  essays  the  adventure.  Alas,  the  dragon 
devours  him. 

JANE.  Oh,  Melisande,  that  isn't  the  one  ? 

MELISANDE.  My  eyes  have  barely  rested  upon  him. 
He  has  aroused  no  emotion  in  my  heart. 

JANE.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad. 

MELISANDE.  Another  prince  steps  forward.  Im- 
petuously he  rushes  upon  the  fiery  monster.  Alas, 
he  likewise  is  consumed. 

JANE  (sympathetically').  Poor  fellow 

MELISANDE.  And  then  one  evening  a  beautiful  and 
modest  youth  in  blue  and  gold  appears  at  my  father's 
court,  and  begs  that  he  too  be  allowed  to  try  his  fortune 
•with  the  dragon.  Passing  through  the  great  hall  on 
my  way  to  my  bed-chamber,  I  see  him  suddenly.  Our 
eyes  meet.  .  .  .  Oh,  Jane  ! 

JANE.  Darling  !  .  .  .  You  ought  to  have  lived  in 
those  days,  Melisande.  They  would  have  suited  you 
so  well. 

MKLISANUE.  Will  they  never  come  back  again  ? 


ACT  i]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  177 

JANE.  Well,  I  don't  quite  see  how  they  can.  People 
don't  dress  in  blue  and  gold  nowadays.  I  mean  men. 

MELISANDE.  No.  (She  sighs)  Well,  I  suppose  I  shall 
never  marry. 

JANE.  Of  course,  I'm  not  romantic  like  you,  darling, 
and  I  don't  have  time  to  read  all  the  wonderful  books 
you  read,  and  though  I  quite  agree  with  everything 
you  say,  and  of  course  it  must  have  been  thrilling  to 
have  lived  in  those  wonderful  old  days,  still  here  we  are, 
and  (with  a  wave  of  the  hand) — and  what  I  mean  is — here 
we  are. 

MELISANDE.  You  are  content  to  put  romance  out  of 
your  life,  and  to  make  the  ordinary  commonplace 
marriage  ? 

JANE.  What  I  mean  is,  that  it  wouldn't  be  common- 
place if  it  was  the  right  man.  Some  nice,  clean-looking 
Englishman — I  don't  say  beautiful — pleasant,  and  good 
at  games,  dependable,  not  very  clever  perhaps,  but 
making  enough  money 

MELISANDE  (carelessly).  It  sounds  rather  like  Bobby. 

JANE  (confused).  It  isn't  like  Bobby,  or  any  one  else 
particularly.  It's  just  anybody.  It  wasn't  any  par- 
ticular person.  I  was  just  describing  the  sort  of  man 
without  thinking  of  any  one  in 

MELISANDE.  All  right,  dear,  all  right. 

JANE.  Besides,  we  all  know  Bobby's  devoted  to 
you. 

MELISANDE  (Jirmly],  Now,  look  here,  Jane,  I  warn  you 
solemnly  that  if  you  think  you  are  going  to  leave  me 

and  Bobby  alone  together  this  evening (J'oices  arc 

heard  outside.}  Well,  I  warn  you. 

JANE  (in  a  whisper).  Of  course  not,  darling.  (H'ilk 
perfect  tacf)  And,  as  I  was  saying,  Melisande,  it  was 

quite  the  most Ah,  here  you  arc  at  last !  We 

wondered  what  had  happened  to  you  ! 


178  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  i 

Enter  BOBBY  and  MR.  KNOWLE.  JANE  has  already  described 
BOBBY  for  us.  MR.  KNOWLE  is  a  pleasant,  middle- 
aged  man  with  a  sense  of  humour,  which  he  cultivates 
for  his  own  amusement  entirely. 

BOBBY.  Were  you  very  miserable  without  us  ?  (lie 
goes  towards  them.) 

JANE  (laughing).  Very. 

(MELISANDE  gets  up  as  BOBBY  comes,  and  moves  away.) 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Where 's  your  Mother,  Sandy  ? 

MELISANDE.  In  the  dining-room,  I  think,  Father. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Ah  !  Resting,  no  doubt.  By  the  way, 
you  won't  forget  what  I  said  about  the  bread-sauce, 
will  you  ? 

MELISANDE.  You  don't  want  it  remembered,  Father, 
do  you  ?  What  you  said  ? 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Not  the  actual  words.  All  I  want,  my 
dear,  is  that  you  should  endeavour  to  explain  to  the 
cook  the  difference  between  bread-sauce  and  a  bread- 
poultice.  Make  it  clear  to  her  that  there  is  no  need 
to  provide  a  bread-poultice  with  an  obviously  healthy 
chicken,  such  as  we  had  to-night,  but  that  a  properly 
made  bread-sauce  is  a  necessity,  if  the  full  flavour  of 
the  bird  is  to  be  obtained. 

MELISANDE.  "  Full  flavour  of  the  bird  is  to  be 
obtained."  Yes,  Father. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  That's  right,  my  dear.  Bring  it  home 
to  her.  A  little  quiet  talk  will  do  wonders.  Well,  and 
so  it's  Midsummer  Night.  Why  aren't  you  two  out  in 
the  garden  looking  for  fairies  ? 

BOBBY.  I  say,  it's  a  topping  night,  you  know.  \Ve 
ought  to  be  out.  D'you  feel  like  a  stroll,  Sandy  ? 

MELISANDE.  No,  thank  you,  Bobby,  I  don't  think  I'll 
go  out. 

BOBBY.  Oh,  I  say,  it's  awfully  warm. 


ACT  i]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  179 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Well,  Jane,  I  shall  take  you  out.  If  we 
meet  any  of  Sandy's  fairy  friends,  you  can  introduce  me. 

MELISANDE  (looking  across  warningly  at  her).  Jane 

JANE  (awkwardly).  I'm  afraid,  Uncle  Henry,  that 
Melisande  and  I — I  promised  Sandy — we 

MR.  KNOWLE  (putting  her  arm  firmly  through  his).  Non- 
sense. I'm  not  going  to  have  my  niece  taken  away  from 
me,  when  she  is  only  staying  with  us  for  such  a  short 
time.  Besides  I  insist  upon  being  introduced  to 
Titania.  I  want  to  complain  about  the  rings  on  the 
tennis-lawn.  They  must  dance  somewhere  else. 

JANE  (looking  anxiously  at  MELISANDE).  You  see,  Uncle 
Henry,  I'm  not  feeling  very 

MELISANDE  (resigned)    All  right,  Jane. 

JANE  (brightly}.  All  right,  Uncle  Henry. 

MR.  KNOWLE  (very  brightly).  It's  all  right,  Bobby. 

JANE.  Come  along  !  (They  go  to  the  open  windows 
together.) 

MR.  KNOWLE  (as  they  go).  Any  message  for  Oberon,  if 
we  meet  him  ? 

MELISANDE  (gravely}.  No,  thank  you,  Father. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  It's  his  turn  to  write,  I  suppose. 

(JANE  laughs  as  they  go  out  together.) 

(Left  alone,  MELISANDE  takes  up  a  book  and  goes  to 

the  sofa  rvith  it,  while  BOBBY  walks  about  the 

room  unhappily,  whistling  to  himself.     He  keeps 

looking  across  at  her,  and  at  last  their  eyes  meet.} 

MELISANDE  (putting  down  her  book).  Well,  Bobby  ? 

BOBBY  (awkwardly}.  Well,  Sandy  ? 

MELISANDE  (angrily).  Don't  call  me  that ;  you  know 
how  I  hate  it. 

BOBBY.  Sorry.  Melisande.  But  it's  such  a  dashed 
mouthful.  And  your  father  was  calling  you  Sandy  just 
now,  and  you  didn't  say  anything. 

MELISANDE.  One  cannot  always  control  one's  parents. 


180  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  i 

There  comes  a  time  when  it  is  almost  useless  to  say 
things  to  them. 

BOBBY  (eagerly).  I  never  mind  your  saying  things  to 
me,  Sandy — I  mean,  Melisande.  I  never  shall  mind, 
really  I  shan't.  Of  course,  I  know  I'm  not  worthy  of 
you,  and  all  that,  but — I  say,  Melisande,  isn't  there 
any  hope  ? 

MELISANDE.  Bobby,  I  asked  you  not  to  talk  to  me 
like  that  again. 

BOBBY  (coming  to  her).  I  know  you  did,  but  I  must. 
I  can't  believe  that  you 

MELISANDE.  I  told  you  that,  if  you  promised  not  to 
talk  like  that  again,  then  I  wouldn't  tell  anybody  any- 
thing about  it,  so  that  it  shouldn't  be  awkward  for  you. 
And  I  haven't  told  anybody,  not  even  Jane,  to  whom 
I  tell  all  my  secrets.  Most  men,  when  they  propose  to 
a  girl,  and  she  refuses  them,  have  to  go  right  out  of  the 
country  and  shoot  lions  ;  it's  the  only  thing  left  for 
them  to  do.  But  I  did  try  and  make  it  easy  for  you, 
Bobby.  (Sadly)  And  now  you're  beginning  all  over  again. 

BOBBY  (awkwardly).  I  though  perhaps  you  might  have 
changed  your  mind.  Lots  of  girls  do. 

MELISANDE  (contemptuously].  Lots  of  girls  !  Is  that 
how  you  think  of  me  ? 

BOBBY.  Well,  your  mother  said (He  breaks  off 

hurriedly.} 

MELISANDE  (coldly).  Have  you  been  discussing  me 
with  my  mother  ? 

BOBBY.  I  say,  Sandy,  don't  be  angry.  Sorry  ;  I  mean 
Melisande. 

MELISANDE.  Don't  apologise.     Go  on. 

BOBBY.  Well,  I  didn't  discuss  you  with  your  mother. 
She  just  happened  to  say  that  girls  never  knew  their 
own  minds,  and  that  they  always  said  "  No  "  the  first 
time,  and  that  I  needn't  be  downhearted,  because 


ACT  i]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  181 

MELISANDE.  That  you  needn't  ?  You  mean  you 
told  her  ? 

BOBBY.  Well,  it  sort  of  came  out. 

MELISANUE.  After  I  had  promised  that  I  wouldn't 
say  anything,  you  went  and  told  her  !  And  then  I 
suppose  you  went  and  told  the  cook,  and  she  said  that 
her  brother's  young  woman  was  just  the  same,  and 
then  you  told  the  butcher,  and  he  said,  "  You  stick  to 
it,  sir.  All  women  are  alike.  My  missis  said  '  No  ' 
to  me  the  first  time."  And  then  you  went  and  told  the 
gardeners — I  suppose  you  had  all  the  gardeners  together 
in  the  potting-shed,  and  gave  them  a  lecture  about  it 
— and  when  you  had  told  them,  you  said,  "  Excuse  me 
a  moment,  I  must  now  go  and  tell  the  postman,"  and 
then 

BOBBY.  I  say,  steady  ;  you  know  that  isn't  fair. 

MELISANDE.  Oh,  what  a  world  ! 

BOBBY.  I  say,  you  know  that  isn't  fair. 

MELISANUE  (picking  up  her  book}.  Father  and  Jane  are 
outside,  Bobby,  if  you  have  anything  you  wish  to  tell 
them.  But  I  suppose  they  know  already.  (She  pretends 
to  read.) 

BOBBY.  I  say,  you  know (He  doesn't  quite  know 

what  to  say.  There  is  an  awkward  silence.  Then  he  says 
humbly]  I'rn  awfully  sorry,  Melisande.  Please  forgive  me. 

MELISANDE  (looking  at  him  gravely}.  That's  nice  of  you, 
Bobby.  Please  forgive  me.  I  wasn't  fair. 

BOBBY.  I  swear  I  never  said  anything  to  anybody 
else,  only  your  mother.  And  it  sort  of  came  out  with 
her.  She  began  talking  about  you 

MELISANDE.    /  know. 

BOBBY.  But  I  never  told  anybody  else. 
MELISANDE.    It    wouldn't   be    necessary   if  you    told 
Mother. 

BOBBY.  I'm  awfully  sorry,  but  I  really  don't  see  why 


182  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  i 

you  should  mind  so  much.  I  mean,  I  know  I'm  not 
anybody  very  much,  but  I  can't  help  falling  in  love 
with  you,  and — well,  it  is  a  sort  of  a  compliment  to 
you,  isn't  it  ? — even  if  it's  only  me. 

MELISANDE.  Of  course  it  is,  Bobby,  and  I  do  thank 
you  for  the  compliment.  But  mixing  Mother  up  in  it 
makes  it  all  so — so  unromantic.  (After  a  pause)  Some- 
times I  think  I  shall  never  marry. 

BOBBY.  Oh,  rot !  .  .  .  I  say,  you  do  like  me,  don't 
you  ? 

MELISANDE.  Oh  yes.  You  are  a  nice,  clean-looking 
Englishman — I  don't  say  beautiful — 

BOBBY.  I  should  hope  not ! 

MELISANDE.  Pleasant,  good  at  games,  dependable — 
not  very  clever,  perhaps,  but  making  enough  money 

BOBBY.  Well,  I  mean,  that's  not  so  bad. 

MELISANDE.  Oh,  but  I  want  so  much  more  ! 

BOBBY.  What  sort  of  things  ? 

MELISANDE.  Oh,  Bobby,  you're  so — so  ordinary  ! 

BOBBY.  Well,  dash  it  all,  you  didn't  want  me  to  be  a 
freak,  did  you  ? 

MELISANDE.  So — commonplace.     So — unromantic. 

BOBBY.  I  say,  steady  on  !  I  don't  say  I'm  always 
reading  poetry  and  all  that,  if  that's  what  you  mean 
by  romantic,  but — commonplace  !  I'm  blessed  if  I  see 
how  you  make  out  that. 

MELISAXDE.  Bobby,  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your 
feelings 

BOBBY.  Go  on,  never  mind  my  feelings. 

MELISAXDE.  Well  then,  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass  ! 
(BOBBY  goes  anxiously  to  the  glass,  and  then  pulls  at 
his  clothes.') 

BOBBY  (looking  back  at  her).  Well  ? 

MELISANDE.    Well  ! 

BOBBY.  I  don't  see  what's  wrong. 


ACT  i]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  183 

MELISANDE.  Oh,  Bobby,  everything's  wrong.  The 
man  to  whom  I  give  myself  must  be  not  only  my  lover, 
but  my  true  knight,  my  hero,  my  prince.  He  must 
perform  deeds  of  derring-do  to  win  my  love.  Oh,  how 
can  you  perform  deeds  of  derring-do  in  a  stupid  little 
suit  like  that ! 

BOBBY  (looking  at  if).  What's  the  matter  with  it  ?  It's 
what  every  other  fellow  wears. 

MELISANDE  (contemptuously) .  What  every  other  fellow 
wears  !  And  you  think  what  every  other  fellow  thinks, 
and  talk  what  every  other  fellow  talks,  and  eat  what 
every  other I  suppose  you  didn't  like  the  bread- 
sauce  this  evening  ? 

BOBBY  (guardedly).  Well,  not  as  bread-sauce. 

MELISANDE  (nodding  her  head).  I  thought  so,  I  thought 
so. 

BOBBY  (struck  by  an  idea).  I  say,  you  didn't  make  it, 
did  you  ? 

MELISANDE.  Do  I  look  as  if  I  made  it  ? 

BOBBY.  I  thought  perhaps —  You  know,  I  really 
don't  know  what  you  do  want,  Sandy.  Sorry ;  I 
mean 

MELISANDE.  Go  on  calling  me  Sandy,  I'd  rather 
you  did. 

BOBBY.  Well,  when  you  marry  this  prince  of  yours, 
is  he  going  to  do  the  cooking  ?  I  don't  understand  you, 
Sandy,  really  I  don't. 

MELISANDE  (shaking  her  head  gently  at  him).  No,  I'm 
sure  you  don't,  Bobby. 

BOBBY  (still  trying,  however).  I  suppose  it's  because 
he's  doing  the  cooking  that  he  won't  be  able  to  dress 
for  dinner.  He  sounds  a  funny  sort  of  chap  ;  I  should 
like  to  see  him. 

MELISANDE.  You  wouldn't  understand  hi."n  if  you  did 
see  him. 


184  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  i 

BOBBY  (jealously).  Have  you  seen  him  ? 

MELISANDE.  Only  in  my  dreams. 

BOBBY  (relieved}.  Oh,  well. 

MELISANDE  (dreamily  to  herself].  Perhaps  I  shall  never 
see  him  in  this  world — and  then  I  shall  never  marry. 
But  if  he  ever  comes  for  me,  he  will  come  not  like  other 
men  ;  and  because  he  is  so  different  from  everybody 
else,  then  I  shall  know  him  when  he  comes  for  me.  He 
won't  talk  about  bread-sauce — billiards — and  the  money 
market.  He  won't  wear  a  h'ttle  black  suit,  with  a  little 
black  tie — all  sideways.  (BOBBY  hastily  pulls  his  tie 
straight.')  I  don't  know  how  he  will  be  dressed,  but  I  know 
this,  that  when  I  see  him,  that  when  my  eyes  have  looked 
into  his,  when  his  eyes  have  looked  into  mine 

BOBBY.  I  say,  steady  ! 

MELISANDE  (waking  from  her  dream}.  Yes?  (She  gives 
a  little  laugh}  Poor  Bobby  ! 

BOBBY  (appealingly).  I  say,  Sandy  !    (He  goes  up  to  her.) 
(MRS.  KNOWLE  has  seized  this  moment  to  come  back 
for  her  handkerchief.     She  sees  them  together, 
and  begins  to  walk  out  on  tiptoed) 

(They  hear  her  and  turn  round  suddenly.} 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (in  a  whisper}.  Don't  take  any  notice  of 
me.  I  only  just  came  for  my  handkerchief.  (She 
continues  to  walk  on  tiptoe  towards  the  opposite  door.} 

MELISANDE  (getting  up}.  We  were  just  wondering 
where  you  were,  Mother.  Here's  your  handkerchief. 
(She  picks  it  up  from  the  sofa} 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (still  in  the  voice  in  which  you  speak  to  an 
invalid).  Thank  you,  dear.  Don't  let  me  interrupt  you 
— I  was  just  going 

MELISANDE.  But  I  am  just  going  into  the  garden. 
Stay  and  talk  to  Bobby,  won't  you  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (with  a  happy  smile,  hoping  for  the  best}. 
Yes,  my  darling. 


ACT  i]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  185 

MELISANDE  (going  to  the  windows).  That's  right.    (S/ie 
stops  at  the  windows  and  holds  out  her  hands  to  the  night) — 

The  moon  shines  bright  :   In  such  a  night  as  this 
When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees 
And  they  did  make  no  noise,  in  such  a  night 
Troilus  methinks  mounted  the  Troyan  walls, 
And  sighed  his  soul  towards  the  Grecian  tents, 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night.     In  such  a  night 
Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand, 
Upon  the  wild  sea  banks,  and  waft  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

(She  stays  there  a  moment,  and  then  says  in  a  thrilling 
voice)  In  such  a  night !    Ah  ! 

[She  goes  to  it. 

MRS.   KNOWLE   (in   a  different  voice).  Ah  !  .  .  .  Well, 
Mr.  Coote  ? 

BOBBY  (turning  back  to  her  with  a  start).  Oh — er — yes  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  No,  I  think  I  must  call  you  Bobby.    I 
may  call  you  Bobby,  mayn't  I  ? 

BOBBY.  Oh,  please  do,  Mrs.  Knowle. 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (archly}.  Not  Mrs.  Knowle  !    Can't  you 
think  of  a  better  name  ? 

HOBBY  (wondering  if  he  ought  to  call  her  MARY).  Er — 
I'm — I'm  afraid  I  don't  quite 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Mother. 

BOBBY.  Oh,  but  I  say 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (giving  him  her  hand).  And  now  come  and 
sit  on  the  sofa  with  me,  and  tell  me  all  about  it. 

(They  go  to  the  sofa  together.) 

BOBBY.  But  I  say,  Mrs.  Knowle 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (shaking  a  finger  playfully  at  hiin).  Not 
Mrs.  Knowle,  Bobby. 

BOBBY.  But  I  say,  you  mustn't  think — I  mean  Sandy 
and  I — we  aren't 


186  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  i 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Coote, 
that  she  has  refused  you  again. 

BOBBY.  Yes.    I  say,  I'd  much  rather  not  talk  about  it. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Well,  it  just  shows  you  that  what  I 
said  the  other  day  was  true.  Girls  don't  know  their 
own  minds. 

BOBBY  (ruefully).  I  think  Sandy  knows  hers — about 
me,  anyhow. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Mr.  Coote,  you  are  forgetting  what 
the  poet  said — Shakespeare,  or  was  it  the  other  man  ? — 
"  Faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady."  If  Mr.  Knowle 
had  had  a  faint  heart,  he  would  never  have  won 
me.  Seven  times  I  refused  him,  and  seven  times  he 
came  again — like  Jacob.  The  eighth  time  he  drew  out 
a  revolver,  and  threatened  to  shoot  himself.  I  was 
shaking  like  an  aspen  leaf.  Suddenly  I  realised  that 
I  loved  him.  "  Henry,"  I  said,  "  I  am  yours."  He 
took  me  in  his  arms— putting  down  the  revolver  first, 
of  course.  I  have  never  regretted  my  surrender,  Mr. 
Coote.  (JVith  a  sigh]  Ah,  me  !  We  women  are  strange 
creatures. 

BOBBY.  I  don't  believe  Sandy  would  mind  if  I  did 
shoot  myself. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Oh,  don't  say  that,  Mr.  Coote.  She  is 
very  warm-hearted.  I'm  sure  it  would  upset  her  a  good 
deal.  Oh  no,  you  are  taking  too  gloomy  a  view  of  the 
situation,  I  am  sure  of  it. 

BOBBY.  Well,  I  shan't  shoot  myself,  but  I  shan't 
propose  to  her  again.  I  know  when  I'm  not  wanted. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  But  we  do  want  you,  Mr.  Coote.  Both 
my  husband  and  I 

BOBBY.  I  say,  I'd  much  rather  not  talk  about  it,  if 
you  don't  mind.  I  practically  promised  her  that  I 
wouldn't  say  anything  to  you  this  time. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  W'hat,  not  say  any  tiling  to  her  only 


ACT  i]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  187 

mother  ?  But  how  should  I  know  if  I  were  to  call  you 
"  Bobby,"  or  not  ? 

BOBBY.  Well,  of  course — I  mean  I  haven't  really  said 
anything,  have  I  ?  Nothing  she'd  really  mind.  She's 
so  funny  about  things. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  She  is  indeed,  Mr.  Coote.  I  don't 
know  where  she  gets  it  from.  Neither  Henry  nor  I  are 
in  the  least  funny.  It  was  all  the  result  of  being 
christened  in  that  irreligious  way — I  quite  thought  he 
said  Millicent — and  reading  all  those  books,  instead 
of  visiting  the  sick  as  I  used  to  do.  I  was  quite  a  little 
Red  Riding  Hood  until  Henry  sprang  at  me  so  fiercely. 
(MR.  KNOWLE  and  JANE  come  in  by  the  window,  and  she 
turns  round  towards  them.)  Ah,  there  you  both  are.  I 
was  wondering  where  you  had  got  to.  Mr.  Coote  has 
been  telling  me  all  about  his  prospects  in  the  city. 
So  comforting.  Jane,  you  didn't  get  your  feet  wet, 
I  hope. 

JANE.  It's  quite  dry,  Aunt  Mary. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  It's  a  most  beautiful  night,  my  dear. 
We've  been  talking  to  the  fairies — haven't  we,  Jane  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Well,  as  long  as  you  didn't  get  cold. 
Did  you  see  Sandy  ? 

MR.  KNOWLE.  \Ve  didn't  see  any  one  but  Titania — 
and  Peters.  He  had  an  appointment,  apparently — but 
not  with  Titania. 

JANE.  He  is  walking  out  with  Alice,  I  think. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Well,  Melisande  will  have  to  talk  to 
Alice  in  the  morning.  I  always  warned  you,  Henry, 
about  the  danger  of  having  an  unmarried  chauffeur  on 
the  premises.  I  always  felt  it  was  a  mistake. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Apparently,  my  dear,  Peters  feels  as 
strongly  about  it  as  you.  He  is  doing  his  best  to 
remedy  the  error. 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (getting  up).  Well,  I  must  be  going  to 


188  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  i 

bed.    1  have  been  through  a  good  deal  to-night ;  more 
than  any  of  you  know  about. 

MR.  KNOWLE  (cheerfully).  What's  the  matter,  my  love  ? 
Indigestion  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Beyond  saying  that  it  is  not  indigestion, 
Henry,  my  lips  are  sealed.  I  shall  suffer  my  cross — my 
mental  cross — in  silence. 

JANE.  Shall  I  come  with  you,  Aunt  Mary  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  In  five  minutes,  dear.  (To  Heaven) 
My  only  daughter  has  left  me,  and  gone  into  the  night. 
Fortunately  my  niece  has  offered  to  help  me  out  of 
my — to  help  me.  (Holding  out  her  hand)  Good-night, 
Mr.  Coote. 

BOBBY.  Good-night,  Mrs.  Knowle. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Good-night !  And  remember  (in  a  loud 
whisper)  what  Shakespeare  said.  (She  presses  his  hand 
and  holds  if)  Good-night !  Good-night !  .  .  .  Good- 
night ! 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Shakespeare  said  so  many  things. 
Among  others,  he  said,  "  Good-night,  good-night, 
parting  is  such  sweet  sorrow,  that  I  could  say  good- 
night till  it  be  morrow."  (MRS.  KNOWLE  looks  at  him 
severely,  and  then,  without  saying  anything,  goes  over  to 
him  and  holds  up  her  cheek.}  Good-night,  my  dear. 
Sleep  well. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  In  five  minutes,  Jane. 

JANE.  Yes,  Aunt  Mary. 

(MRS.  KNOWLE  goes  to  the  door,  BOBBY  hurrying  in 
front  to  open  it  for  her} 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (at  the  door}.  I  shall  not  sleep  well.  I 
shall  lie  awake  all  night.  Dr.  Anderson  will  be  very 
much  distressed.  "  Dr.  Anderson,"  I  shall  say,  "  it  is 
not  your  fault.  I  lay  awake  all  night,  thinking  of  my 
loved  ones."  In  five  minutes,  Jane. 

[She  goes  out. 


ACT  i]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  189 

MR.  KNOWLE.  An  exacting  programme.  Well,  I  shall 
be  in  the  library,  if  anybody  wants  to  think  of  me — or 
say  good-night  to  me — or  anything  like  that. 

JANE.  Then  I'd  better  say  good-night  to  you  now, 
Uncle  Henry.  (She  goes  up  to  him) 

MR.  KNOWLE  (kissing  her}.  Good-night,  dear. 

JANE.  Good-night. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  If  there's  anybody  else  who  wants  to 
kiss  me — what  about  you,  Bobby  ?  Or  will  you  come 
into  the  library  and  have  a  smoke  first  ? 

BOBBY.  Oh,  I  shall  be  going  to  bed  directly,  I  think. 
Rather  tired  to-day,  somehow. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Then  good-night  to  you  also.  Dear  me, 
what  a  business  this  is.  Sandy  has  left  us  for  ever,  I 
understand.  If  she  should  come  back,  Jane,  and 
wishes  to  kiss  the  top  of  rny  head,  she  will  find  it  in  the 
library — just  above  the  back  of  the  armchair  nearest 
the  door.  [He  goes  out. 

JANE.  Did  Sandy  go  out  into  the  garden  ? 

BOBBY  (gloomily}.  Yes — about  five  minutes  ago. 

JANE  (timidly}.  I'm  so  sorry,  Bobby. 

BOBBY.  Thanks,  it's  awfully  decent  of  you.  (After 
a  pause)  Don't  let's  talk  about  it. 

JANE.  Of  course  I  won't  if  it  hurts  you,  Bobby.  But 
I  felt  I  had  to  say  something,  I  felt  so  sorry.  You  didn't 
mind,  did  you  ? 

BOUBY.  It's  awfully  decent  of  you  to  mind. 

JANE  (gently}.  I  mind  very  much  when  my  friends  are 
unhappy. 

BOBDY.  Thanks  awfully.  (He  stands  up,  buttons  his 
coat,  and  looks  at  himself}  I  say,  do  you  see  anything 
wrong  with  it  ? 

JANE.  Wrong  witli  what  ? 

HOBBY.  My  clothes.     (lie  revolves  slowly.} 

JANE.  Of  course  not.     They  fit  beautifully. 


190  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  i 

BOBBY.  Sandy's  so  funny  about  things.  I  don't 
know  what  she  means  half  the  time. 

JANE.  Of  course,  I'm  very  fond  of  Melisande,  but  I 
do  see  what  you  mean.  She's  so  (searching  far  the 
right  word) — so  romantic. 

BOBBY  (eagerly").  Yes,  that's  just  it.  It  takes  a  bit  of 
living  up  to.  I  say,  have  a  cigarette,  won't  you  ? 

JANE.  No,  thank  you.  Of  course,  I'm  very  fond  of 
Melisande,  but  I  do  feel  sometimes  that  I  don't  alto- 
gether envy  the  man  who  marries  her. 

BOBBY.  I  say,  do  you  really  feel  that  ? 

JANE.  Yes.  She's  too  (getting  the  right  word  at  last) — 
too  romantic. 

BOBBY.  You're  about  right,  you  know.  I  mean  she 
talks  about  doing  deeds  of  derring-do.  Well,  I  mean 
that's  all  very  well,  but  when  one  marries  and  settles 
down — you  know  what  I  mean  ? 

JANE.  Exactly.  That's  just  how  I  feel  about  it.  As 
I  said  to  Melisande  only  this  evening,  this  is  the 
twentieth  century.  Well,  I  happen  to  like  the  twentieth 
century.  That's  all. 

BOBBY.  I  see  what  you  mean. 

JANE.  It  may  be  very  unromantic  of  me,  but  I  like 
men  to  be  keen  on  games,  and  to  wear  the  clothes  that 
everybody  else  wears — as  long  as  they  fit  well,  of 
course — and  to  talk  about  the  ordinary  things  that 
everybody  talks  about.  Of  course,  Melisande  would 
say  that  that  was  very  stupid  and  unromantic  of  me 

BOBBY.  I  don't  think  it  is  at  all. 

JANE.  How  awfully  nice  of  you  to  say  that,  Bobby. 
You  do  understand  so  wonderfully. 

BOBBY  (with  a  laugh).  I  say,  that's  rather  funny.  I 
was  just  thinking  the  same  about  you. 

JANE.  I  say,  were  you  really  ?  I'm  so  glad.  I  like 
to  feel  that  we  are  really  friends,  and  that  we  under- 


ACT  i]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  191 

stand  each  other.     I  don't  know  whether  I'm  different 
from  other  girls,  but  I  don't  make  friends  very  easily. 

BOBBY.  Do  you  mean  men  or  women  friends  ? 

JANE.  Both.  In  fact,  but  for  Melisande  and  you,  I 
can  hardly  think  of  any — not  what  you  call  real  friends. 

BOBBY.  Melisande  is  a  great  friend,  isn't  she  ?  You 
tell  each  other  all  your  secrets,  and  that  sort  of  thing, 
don't  you  ? 

JANE.  Yes,  we're  great  friends,  but  there  are  some 
things  that  I  could  never  tell  even  her.  (Impresiively) 
I  could  never  show  her  my  inmost  heart. 

BOBBY.  I  don't  believe  about  your  not  having  any 
men  friends.  I  bet  there  are  hundreds  of  them,  as 
keen  on  you  as  anything. 

JANE.  I  wonder.  It  would  be  rather  nice  to  think 
there  were.  That  sounds  horrid,  doesn't  it,  but  a  girl 
can't  help  wanting  to  be  liked. 

BOBBY.  Of  course  she  can't  ;  nobody  can.  I  don't 
think  it's  a  bit  horrid. 

JANE.  How  nice  of  you.  (She  gets  up)  Well,  I  must 
be  going,  I  suppose. 

BOBBY.  What's  the  hurry  ? 

JANE.  Aunt  Mary.     She  said  five  minutes. 

BOBBY.  And  how  long  will  you  be  with  her  ?  You'll 
come  down  again,  won't  you  ? 

JANE.  No,  I  don't  think  so.  I'm  rather  tired  this 
evening.  (Holding  out  her  hand)  Good-night,  Bobby. 

BOBBY  (taking  it).  Oh,  but  look  here,  I'll  come  and 
light  your  candle  for  you. 

JANE.  How  nice  of  you  ! 

(She  manages  to  get  her  hand  back,  and  they  walk 
to  the  door  together.} 

BOBBY.  I  suppose  I  may  as  well  go  to  bed  myself. 

JANE  (at  the  door).  Well,  if  you  are,  we'd  better  put 
the  lights  out. 


192  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  i 

BOBBY.  Righto.  (He  puts  them  out.)  I  say,  what  a 
night !  (The  moonlight  streams  through  the  windows  on 
them.)  You'll  hardly  want  a  candle. 

[They  go  out  together. 

(The  hall  is  empty.  Suddenly  the  front  door  bell 
is  heard  to  ring.  After  a  little  interval,  ALICE 
comes  in,  turns  on  the  light,  and  looks  round 
the  hall.  She  is  walking  across  the  hall  to 
the  drawing-room  when  MR.  KNOWLE  comes  in 
from  behind  her,  and  she  turns  round). 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Were  you  looking  for  me,  Alice  ? 

ALICE.  Yes,  sir.  There's  a  gentleman  at  the  front 
door,  sir. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Rather  late  for  a  call,  isn't  it  ? 

ALICE.  He's  in  a  motor  car,  sir,  and  it's  broken  down, 
and  he  wondered  if  you'd  lend  him  a  little  petrol.  He 
told  me  to  say  how  very  sorry  he  was  to  trouble  you — 

MR.  KNOWLE.  But  he's  not  troubling  me  at  all — par- 
ticularly if  Peters  is  about.  I  daresay  you  could  find 
Peters,  Alice,  and  if  it's  not  troubling  Peters  too  much, 
perhaps  he  would  see  to  it.  And  ask  the  gentleman  to 
come  in.  We  can't  keep  him  standing  on  the  door-mat. 

ALICE.  Yes,  sir.     I  did  ask  him  before,  sir. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Well,  ask  him  this  time  in  the  voice  of 
one  who  is  about  to  bring  in  the  whiskey. 

ALICE.  Yes,  sir. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  And  then— bring  in  the  whiskey. 

ALICE.  Yes,  sir.  (She  goes  out,  and  returns  a  moment 
later]  He  says,  thank  you  very  much,  sir,  but  he  really 
won't  come  in,  and  he's  very  sorry  indeed  to  trouble 
you  about  the  petrol. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Ah  !  I'm  afraid  we  were  too  allusive  for 
him. 

ALICE  (hopefully).  Yes,  sir. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Well,  we  won't  be  quite  so  subtle  this 


ACT  i]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  193 

time.  Present  Mr.  Knowle's  compliments,  and  say 
that  I  shall  be  very  much  honoured  if  he  will  drink  a 
glass  of  whiskey  with  me  before  proceeding  on  his 
journey. 

ALICE.  Yes,  sir. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  And  then — bring  in  the  whiskey. 

ALICE.  Yes,  sir.  (She  goes  out.  In  a  little  while  she 
comes  back  followed  by  the  stranger,  who  is  dressed  from 
head  to  foot  in  a  long  cloak.}  Mr.  Gervase  Mallory. 

[She  goes  out. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Mallory?  I'm 
very  glad  to  see  you.  (They  shake  hands.} 

GERVASE.  It's  very  kind  of  you.  I  really  must 
apologise  for  bothering  you  like  this.  I'm  afraid  I'm 
being  an  awful  nuisance. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Not  at  all.     Are  you  going  far  ? 

OERVASE.  Collingham.  I  live  at  Little  Mailing,  about 
twenty  miles  away.  Do  you  know  it  ? 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Yes.  I've  been  through  it.  I  didn't 
know  it  was  as  far  away  as  that. 

OERVASE  (with  a  laugh}.  Well,  perhaps  only  by  the 
way  I  came.  The  fact  is  I've  lost  myself  rather. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  I'm  afraid  you  have.  Collingham. 
You  oughtn't  to  have  come  within  five  miles  of  us. 

GERVASE.  I  suppose  I  oughtn't. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Well,  all  the  more  reason  for  having  a 
drink  now  that  you  are  here. 

GERVASE.  It's  awfully  kind  of  you. 

ALICE  comes  in. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Ah,  here  we  are.  (ALICE  puts  down  the 
whiskey}  You've  told  Peters  ? 

ALICE.  Yes,  sir.     He's  looking  after  it  now. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  That's  right.  (ALICE  goes  out}  You'll 
have  some  whiskey,  won't  you  ? 

o 


194-  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  i 

OERVASE.  Thanks  very  much. 

(He  comes  to  the  table.) 

MR.  KNOWLE.  And  do  take  your  coat  off,  won't  you, 
and  make  yourself  comfortable  ? 

GERVASE.  Er — thanks.     I  don't  think 

(He  smiles  to  himself  and  keeps  his  cloak  on.") 

MR.  KNOWLE  (busy  with  the  drinks).  Say  when. 

GERVASE.  Thank  you. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  And  soda  ? 

GERVASE.  Please.  .  .  .  Thanks  ! 

(He  takes  the  glass.) 

MR.  KNOWLE  (giving  himself  one).  I'm  so  glad  you 
came,  because  I  have  a  horror  of  drinking  alone.  Even 
when  my  wife  gives  me  cough-mixture,  I  insist  on  some- 
body else  in  the  house  having  cough-mixture  too.  A 
glass  of  cough-mixture  with  an  old  friend  just  before 

going  to  bed (He  looks  up)  But  do  take  your  coat 

off,  won't  you,  and  sit  down  and  be  comfortable  ? 

GERVASE.  Er — thanks  very  much,  but  I  don't  think 

(With  a  shrug  and  a  smile)  Oh,  well  !  (He  puts  dorvn  his 
glass  and  begins  to  take  it  off.  He  is  infancy  dress — the 
wonderful  young  Prince  in  blue  and  gold  of  MELISANDE'S 
dream?) 

(MR.  KNOWLE  turns  round  to  him  again  just  as  he 
has  put  his  cloak  down.  He  looks  at  GERVASE 
in  amazement.') 

MR  .  KNOWLE  (pointing  to  his  whiskey  glass) .  But  I  haven 't 
even  begun  it  yet.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it's  the  port. 

GERVASE  (laughing).  I'm  awfully  sorry.  You  must 
wonder  what  on  earth  I'm  doing. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  No,  no  ;  I  wondered  what  on  earth 
I'd  been  doing. 

GERVASE.  You  see,  I'm  going  to  a  fancy  dress  dance 
at  Collingham. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  You  relieve  my  mind  considerably. 


ACT  i]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  195 

GERVASE.  That's  why  I  didn't  want  to  come  in— or 
take  my  cloak  off. 

MR.  KNOWLE  (inspecting  him).  It  becomes  you  extra- 
ordinarily well,  if  I  may  say  so. 

GERVASE.  Oh,  thanks  very  much.  But  one  feels 
rather  absurd  in  it  when  other  people  are  in  ordinary 
clothes. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  On  the  contrary,  you  make  other  people 
feel  absurd.  I  don't  know  that  that  particular  style 
would  have  suited  me,  but  (looking  at  himself)  I  am  sure 
that  I  could  have  found  something  more  expressive  of 
my  emotions  than  this. 

OERVASE.  You're  quite  right.  "  Dress  does  make  a 
difference,  Davy." 

MR.  KNOWLE.  It  does  indeed. 

OERVASE.  I  feel  it's  almost  wicked  of  me  to  be 
drinking  a  whiskey  and  soda. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Very  wicked.  (Taking  out  his  case) 
Have  a  cigarette,  too  ? 

GERVASE.  May  I  have  one  of  my  own  ? 

MR.  KNOWLE.    Do. 

GERVASE  (feeling  for  if).  If  I  can  find  it.  They  were 
very  careless  about  pockets  in  the  old  days.  I  had  a 
special  one  put  in  somewhere,  only  it's  rather  difficult 
to  get  at.  ...  Ah,  here  it  is.  (He  takes  a  cigarette 
from  his  case,  and  after  trying  to  put  the  case  back  in  his 
pocket  again,  places  it  on  the  table.) 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Match  ? 

GERVASE.  Thanks.  (Picking  up  his  whiskey)  Well, 
here's  luck,  and — my  most  grateful  thanks. 

MR.  KNOWLE  (raising  his  glass).  May  you  slay  ail  your 
dragons. 

GERVASE.  Thank  you.  (They  drink.') 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Well,  now  about  Collingham.  1  don't 
know  if  you  saw  a  map  outside  in  the  hall. 


196  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  i 

OERVASE.  I  saw  it,  but  I  am  afraid  I  didn't  look  at 
it.  I  was  too  much  interested  in  your  prints. 

MR.  KNOWLE  (eagerly).  You  don't  say  that  you  are 
interested  in  prints  ? 

OERVASE.  Very  much — as  an  entire  amateur. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Most  of  the  young  men  who  come 
here  think  that  the  art  began  and  ended  with  Kirchner. 
If  you  are  really  interested,  I  have  something  in  the 
library — but  of  course  I  mustn't  take  up  your  time  now. 
If  you  could  bear  to  come  over  another  day — after  all, 
we  are  neighbours 

GERVASE.  It's  awfully  nice  of  you  ;  I  should  love  it. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Hedgling  is  the  name  of  the  village.  I 
mention  it  because  you  seem  to  have  lost  your  way  so 
completely 

GERVASE.  Oh,  by  Jove,  now  I  know  where  I  am.  It's 
so  different  in  the  moonlight.  I'm  lunching  this  way 
to-morrow.  Might  I  come  on  afterwards  ?  And  then 
I  can  return  your  petrol,  thank  you  for  your  hospitality, 
and  expose  my  complete  ignorance  of  old  prints,  all 
in  one  afternoon. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Well,  but  you  must  come  anyhow. 
Come  to  tea. 

GERVASE.  That  will  be  ripping.  (Getting  up]  Well,  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  be  getting  on.  (He  picks  up  his  cloak.) 

MR.  KNOWLE.  We  might  just  have  a  look  at  that  map 
on  the  way. 

GERVASE.  Oh  yes,  do  let's. 

(They  go  to  the  door  together,  and  stand  for  a 
moment  looking  at  the  casement  windows?) 

MR.  KNOWLE.  It  really  is  a  wonderful  night.  (He 
switches  ojf  the  lights,  and  the  moon  streams  through  the 
windows}  Just  look. 

OERVASE  (with  a  deep  sigh).  Wonderful  ! 

[  They  go  out  together. 


ACT  i]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  197 

(T/ie  hall  is  empty  for  a  moment.  Then  GERVASE  re- 
appears. He  has  forgotten  his  cigarette-case. 
He  finds  it,  and  on  his  way  out  again  stops  for 
a  moment  in  the  moonlight,  looking  through  the 
casement  windows.) 

(MELISANDE  comes  in  by  the  French  windows.  He 
hears  her,  and  at  the  same  moment  she  sees 
him.  She  gives  a  little  wondering  cry.  It  is 
He  !  The  knight  of  her  dreams.  They  stand 
gazing  at  each  other.  .  .  .  Silently  he  makes 
obeisance  to  her;  silently  she  acknowledges  it. 
.  .  .  Then  he  is  gone.) 


ACT  II 

It  is  seven  o'clock  on  a  beautiful  midsummer  morning.  The 
scene  is  a  glade  in  a  wood  a  little  way  above  the 
village  of  Hedgling. 

GERVASE  MALLORY,  still  in  his  fancy  dress,  but  with  his 
cloak  on,  comes  in.  He  looks  round  him  and  says, 
"  By  Jove,  how  jolly  !  "  He  takes  off  his  cloak, 
throws  it  down,  stretches  himself,  turns  round,  and, 
seeing  the  view  behind  him,  goes  to  look  at  it.  While 
he  is  looking  he  hears  an  unmelodious  whistling.  He 
turns  round  with  a  start ;  the  whistling  goes  on  ;  he 
says  "  Good  Lord  !  "  and  tries  to  get  to  his  cloak. 
It  is  too  late.  ERN,  a  very  small  boy,  comes  through 
the  trees  into  the  glade.  GERVASE  gives  a  sigh  of 
resignation  and  stands  there.  ERN  stops  in  the  middle 
of  his  tune  and  gazes  at  him. 

ERN.  Oo — er  !    Oo  !    (He  circles  slowly  round  GERVASE.) 

GERVASE.  I  quite  agree  with  you. 

ERN.  Oo  !     Look  ! 

GERVASE.  Yes,  it  is  a  bit  dressy,  isn't  it  ?  Come 
round  to  the  back — take  a  good  look  at  it  while  you 
can.  That's  right.  .  .  .  Been  all  round  ?  Good  ! 

ERN.  Oo  ! 

GERVASE.  You  keep  saying  "  Oo."  It  makes  conversa- 
tion very  difficult.  Do  you  mind  if  I  sit  down  ? 

ERN.  Oo  J 

193 


ACT  n]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  199 

GERVASE  (sitting  down  on  a  log).  I  gather  that  I  have 
your  consent.  I  thank  you. 

ERN.  Oo  !    Look  !    (He  points  at  OERVASE'S  legs.) 

OERVASE.  What  is  it  now  ?  My  legs  ?  Oh,  but 
surely  you've  noticed  those  before  ? 

ERN  (sitting  down  in  front  of  GERVASE).  Oo  1 

GERVASE.  Really,  I  don't  understand  you.  I  came 
up  here  for  a  walk  in  a  perfectly  ordinary  blue  suit, 
and  you  do  nothing  but  say  "  Oo."  What  does  your 
father  wear  when  he's  ploughing  ?  I  suppose  you  don't 
walk  all  round  him  and  say  "  Oo  !  "  What  does  your 
Uncle  George  wear  when  he's  reaping  ?  I  suppose 

you  don't By  the  way,  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  your 

name.  (ERN  gazes  at  him  dumbly.)  Oh,  come !  They 
must  have  told  you  your  name  when  you  got  up  this 
morning. 

ERN  (smiling  sheepishly).  Ern. 

GERVASE  (bowing).  How  do  you  do  ?  I  am  very  glad 
to  meet  you,  Mr.  Hearne.  My  name  is  Mallory.  (ERN 
grins)  Thank  you. 

ERN  (tapping  himself).  I'm  Ern. 

GERVASE.  Yes,  I'm  Mallory. 

ERN.  Ern. 

GERVASE.  Mallory.  We  can't  keep  on  saying  this  to 
each  other,  you  know,  because  then  we  never  get  any 
farther.  Once  an  introduction  is  over,  Mr.  Hearne, 
we  are 

ERN.  Ern. 

GERVASE.  Yes,  I  know.  I  was  very  glad  to  hear  it. 
But  now —  Oh,  I  see  what  you  mean.  Ern — short 
for  Ernest  ? 

ERN  (nodding).  They  calls  me  Ern. 

GERVASE.  That's  very  friendly  of  them.  Being  more 
of  a  stranger  I  shall  call  you  Ernest.  Well,  Ernest — 
(getting  up)  Just  excuse  me  a  moment,  will  you  ?  Very 


200  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  n 

penetrating  bark  this  tree  has.  It  must  be  a 
Pomeranian.  (Pie  folds  his  cloak  upon  it  and  sits  down 
again)  That's  better.  Now  we  can  talk  comfortably 
together.  I  don't  know  if  there's  anything  you  particu- 
larly want  to  discuss — nothing  ? — well,  then,  I  will 
suggest  the  subject  of  breakfast. 

ERN  (grinning).  'Ad  my  breakfast. 

GERVASE.  You've  had  yours  ?  You  selfish  brute  !  .  .  . 
Of  course,  you're  wondering  why  I  haven't  had  mine. 

ERN.  Bacon  fat.    (He  makes  reminiscent  noises.) 

GERVASE.  Don't  keep  on  going  through  all  the  courses. 
Well,  what  happened  was  this.  My  car  broke  down.  I 
suppose  you  never  had  a  motor  car  of  your  own. 

ERN.  Don't  like  moty  cars. 

GERVASE.  Well,  really,  after  last  night  I'm  inclined 
to  agree  with  you.  Well,  no,  I  oughtn't  to  say  that, 
because,  if  I  hadn't  broken  down,  I  should  never  have 
seen  Her.  Ernest,  I  don't  know  if  you're  married  or 
anything  of  that  sort,  but  I  think  even  your  rough  stern 
heart  would  have  been  moved  by  that  vision  of  loveliness 
which  I  saw  last  night.  (He  is  silent  for  a  little, 
thinking  of  her.)  Well,  then,  I  lost  my  way.  There  I 
was — ten  miles  from  anywhere — in  the  middle  of  what 
was  supposed  to  be  a  short  cut — late  at  night — Mid- 
summer Night — what  would  you  have  done,  Ernest  ? 

ERN.  Gone  'ome. 

GERVASE.  Don't  be  silly.  How  could  I  go  home  when 
I  didn't  know  where  home  was,  and  it  was  a  hundred 
miles  away,  and  I'd  just  seen  the  Princess?  No,  I  did 
what  your  father  or  your  Uncle  George  or  any  wise 
man  would  have  done,  I  sat  in  the  car  and  thought  of 
Her. 

ERN.    Oo  ! 

GERVASE.  You  are  surprised  ?  Ah,  but  if  you'd  seen 
her.  .  .  .  Have  you  ever  been  alone  in  the  moonlight 


ACT  n]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  201 

on  Midsummer  Night — I  don't  mean  just  for  a  minute 
or  two,  but  all  through  the  night  until  the  dawn  came  ? 
You  aren't  really  alone,  you  know.  All  round  you  there 
are  little  whisperings  going  on,  little  breathings,  little 
rustlings.  Somebody  is  out  hunting  ;  somebody  stirs 
in  his  sleep  as  he  dreams  again  the  hunt  of  yesterday  ; 
somebody  up  in  the  tree-tops  pipes  suddenly  to  the 
dawn,  and  then,  finding  that  the  dawn  has  not  come, 
puts  his  silly  little  head  back  under  his  wing  and  goes 
to  sleep  again.  .  .  .  And  the  fairies  are  out.  Do  you 
believe  in  fairies,  Ernest  ?  You  would  have  believed  in 
them  last  night.  I  heard  them  whispering. 

ERN.  Oo  ! 

QERVASE  (coming  out  of  his  thoughts  with  a  laugK).  Well, 
of  course,  I  can't  expect  you  to  believe  me.  But  don't 
go  about  thinking  that  there's  nothing  in  the  world  but 
bacon  fat  and  bull's-eyes.  Well,  then,  I  suppose  I  went 
to  sleep,  for  I  woke  up  suddenly  and  it  was  morning, 
the  most  wonderful  sparkling  magical  morning — but,  of 
course,  you  were  just  settling  down  to  business  then. 

ERN.  Oo  !     (He  makes  more  reminiscent  noises.} 

GERVASE.  Yes,  that's  just  what  I  said.  I  said  to 
myself,  breakfast. 

ERN.  'Ad  my  breakfast. 

GERVASE.  Yes,  but  I  'adn't.  I  said  to  myself, 
"  Surely  my  old  friend,  Ernest,  whom  I  used  to  shoot 
bison  with  in  the  Himalayas,  has  got  an  estate  some- 
where in  these  parts.  I  will  go  and  share  his  simple 
meal  with  him."  So  I  got  out  of  the  car,  and  I  did 
what  you  didn't  do,  young  man,  I  had  a  bathe  in  the 
river,  and  then  a  dry  on  a  pocket-handkerchief — one 
of  my  sister's,  unfortunately — and  then  I  came  out  to 
look  for  breakfast.  And  suddenly,  whom  should  I  meet 
but  my  old  friend,  Ernest,  the  same  hearty  fellow,  the 
same  inveterate  talker  as  when  we  shot  dragon-flies 


202  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  n 

together  in  the  swamps  of  Malay.  (Shaking  his  hand) 
Ernest,  old  boy,  pleased  to  meet  you.  What  about 
it? 

ERN.  'Ad  my 

OERVASE.  S'sh.  (He  gets  up)  Now  then — to  business. 
Do  you  mind  looking  the  other  way  while  I  try  to  find 
my  purse.  (Feeling  for  it.)  Every  morning  when  you 
get  up,  you  should  say,  "  Thank  God,  I'm  getting  a  big 
boy  now  and  I've  got  pockets  in  my  trousers."  And 
you  should  feel  very  sorry  for  the  poor  people  who 
lived  in  fairy  books  and  had  no  trousers  to  put  pockets 
in.  Ah,  here  we  are.  Now  then,  Ernest,  attend  very 
carefully.  Where  do  you  live  ? 

ERN.  'Ome. 

GERVASE.  You  mean,  you  haven't  got  a  flat  of  your 
own  yet  ?  Well,  how  far  away  is  your  home  ?  (ERN 
grins  and  says  nothing)  A  mile  ?  (ERN  continues  to  grin) 
Half  a  mile  ?  (ERN  grins)  Six  inches  ? 

ERN  (pointing).  Down  there. 

GERVASE.  Good.  Now  then,  I  want  you  to  take  this — 
(giving  him  half-a-crotvn) 

ERN.  Oo  ! 

GERVASE.  Yes,  I  thought  that  would  move  you — and 
I  want  you  to  ask  your  mother  if  you  can  bring  me 
some  breakfast  up  here.  Now,  listen  very  carefully, 
because  we  are  coming  to  the  important  part.  Hard- 
boiled  eggs,  bread,  butter,  and  a  bottle  of  milk — and 
anything  else  she  likes.  Tell  her  that  it's  most  important, 
because  your  old  friend  Mallory  whom  you  shot  white 
mice  with  in  Egypt  is  starving  by  the  roadside.  And 
if  you  come  back  here  with  a  basket  quickly,  I'll  give 
you  as  many  bull's-eyes  as  you  can  eat  in  a  week.  {Very 
earnestly)  Now,  Ernest,  with  all  the  passion  and  emotion 
of  which  I  am  capable  before  breakfast,  I  ask  you  : 
have  you  got  that  ? 


ACT  ii]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  203 

ERN  (nodding).  Going  'ome.  (He  looks  at  the  half- 
crown  again. ) 

GERVASE.  Going  'ome.  Yes.  But — returning  with 
breakfast.  Starving  man — lost  in  forest — return  with 
basket — save  life.  (To  himself)  I  believe  I  could 
explain  it  better  to  a  Chinaman.  (To  ERN)  Now  then, 
off  you  go. 

ERN  (as  he  goes  off).  'Ad  my  breakfast. 

GEHVASE.  Yes,  and  I  wonder  if  I  shall  get  mine. 

(OERVASE  walks  slowly  after  him  and  stands  looking 
at  him  as  he  goes  down  the  hill.  Then,  turning 
round,  he  sees  another  stranger  in  the  distance.) 

OERVASE.  Hullo,  here's  another  of  them.  (He  walks 
towards  the  log)  Horribly  crowded  the  country's  getting 
nowadays.  (He  puts  on  his  coat.) 

(A  moment  later  a  travelling  Peddler,  name  of  SUSAN, 
comes  in  singing.  He  sees  GERVASE  fitting  on 
the  log.) 

SUSAN  (with  a  bow).  Good  morning,  sir. 

GERVASE.  (looking  round).  Good  morning. 

SUSAN.  I  had  thought  to  be  alone.  I  trust  my  singing 
did  not  discommode  you. 

GERVASE.  Not  at  all.     I  like  it.     Do  go  on. 

SUSAN.  Alas,  the  song  ends  there. 

GERVASE.  Oh,  well,  couldn't  we  have  it  again  ? 

SUSAN.  Perhaps  later,  sir,  if  you  insist.  (Taking  off 
his  hat)  Would  it  inconvenience  you  if  I  rested  here  for 
a  few  minutes  ? 

GERVASE.  Not  a  bit.  It's  a  jolly  place  to  rest  at,  isn't 
it  ?  Have  you  come  far  this  morning  ? 

SUSAN.  Three  or  four  miles — a  mere  nothing  on  a 
morning  like  this.  Besides,  what  does  the  great 
William  say  ? 

GERVASE.  I  don't  think  I  know  him.  What  does  he 
say  ? 


204  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  n 

SUSAN.  A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  way. 

GERVASE.  Oh,  Shakespeare,  yes. 

SUSAN.  And  why,  you  ask,  am  I  merry  ? 

GERVASE.  Well,  I  didn't,  but  I  was  just  going  to. 
Why  are  you  merry  ? 

SUSAN.  Can  you  not  guess  ?  What  does  the  great 
Ralph  say  ? 

GERVASE  (trying  hard).  The  great  Ralph.  .  .  .  No, 
you've  got  me  there.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  him. 
Well,  what  does  he  say  ? 

SUSAN.  Give  me  health  and  a  day,  and  I  will  make 
the  pomp  of  Empires  ridiculous. 

GERVASE.  Emerson,  of  course.     Silly  of  me. 

SUSAN.  So  you  see,  sir — I  am  well,  the  day  is  well,  all 
is  well. 

GERVASE.  Sir,  I  congratulate  you.  In  the  words  of 
the  great  Percy — (to  himself)  that's  got  him. 

SUSAN  (at  a  loss).  The — er — great  Percy  ? 

GERVASE.  Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

SUSAN  (eagerly).  I  take  you,  I  take  you  !  Shelley  ! 
Ah,  there's  a  poet,  Mr. — er — I  don't  think  I  quite 
caught  your  name. 

GERVASE.  Oh  !  My  name's  Gervase  Mallory — to  be 
referred  to  by  posterity,  I  hope,  as  the  great  Gervase. 

SUSAN.  Not  a  poet,  too  ? 

GERVASE.  Well,  no,  not  professionally. 

SUSAN.  But  one  with  the  poets  in  spirit — like  myself. 
I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Mallory.  It  is  most 
good-natured  of  you  to  converse  with  me.  My  name 
is  Susan.  (GERVASE  bows.)  Generally  called  Master 
Susan  in  these  parts,  or  sometimes  Gentleman  Susan. 
I  am  a  travelling  Peddler  by  profession. 

GERVASE.  A  delightful  profession,  I  am  sure. 

SUSAN.  The  most  delightful  of  all  professions.  (He 
begins  to  undo  his  pack.)  Speaking  professionally  for  the 


ACT  ii]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  205 

moment,  if  I  may  so  far  venture,  you  are  not  in  any 
need  of  boot-laces,  buttons,  or  collar-studs  ? 

OERVASE  (smiling).  Well,  no,  not  at  this  actual  moment. 
On  almost  any  other  day  perhaps — but  no,  not  this 
morning. 

SUSAN.  I  only  just  mentioned  it  in  passing — en  passant, 
as  the  French  say.  (He  brings  out  a  paper  bag  from  his 
pack.}  Would  the  fact  of  my  eating  my  breakfast  in  this 
pleasant  resting  place  detract  at  all  from  your  apprecia- 
tion of  the  beautiful  day  which  Heaven  has  sent  us  ? 

OERVASE.  Eating  your  what  ? 

SUSAN.  My  simple  breakfast. 

OERVASE  (shaking  his  head).  I'm  very  sorry,  but  I 
really  don't  think  I  could  bear  it.  Only  five  minutes 
ago  Ernest — I  don't  know  if  you  know  Ernest  ? 

SUSAN.  The  great  Ernest  ? 

OERVASE  (indicating  with  his  hand).  No,  the  very  small 

one Well,  he  was  telling  me  all  about  the  breakfast 

he'd  just  had,  and  now  you're  showing  me  the  breakfast 
you're  just  going  to  have — no,  I  can't  bear  it. 

SUSAN.  My  dear  sir,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that 
you  would  do  me  the  honour  of  joining  me  at  my 
simple  repast  ? 

OERVASE  (jumping  up  excitedly].  The  honour  of  joining 
you  ! — the  honour  !  My  dear  Mr.  Susan  !  Now  I  know 
why  they  call  you  Gentleman  Susan.  (Shaking  his  head 
sadly]  But  no.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  you.  I  should  eat 
too  much.  Besides,  Ernest  may  come  back.  No,  I  will 
wait.  It  wouldn't  be  fair. 

SUSAN  (unpacking  his  breakfast}.  Bacon  or  cheese  ? 

GERVASE.  Cheese — I  mean  bacon — I  mean — I  say, 
you  aren't  serious  ? 

SUSAN  (handing  him  bread  and  cheese].  I  trust  you  will 
find  it  up  to  your  expectations. 

CKUVASE  (taking  it].  I  say,  you  really •     (Solemnly] 


206  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  n 

Master  Susan,  with  all  the  passion  and  emotion  of  which 
I  am  capable  before  breakfast,  I  say  "  Thank  you." 
(He  takes  a  bite)  Thank  you. 

SUSAN  (eating  also).  Please  do  not  mention  it.  I  am 
more  than  repaid  by  your  company. 

GERVASE.  It  is  charming  of  you  to  say  so,  and  I  am 
very  proud  to  be  your  guest,  but  I  beg  you  to  allow  me 
to  pay  for  this  delightful  cheese. 

SUSAN.  No,  no.     I  couldn't  hear  of  it. 

GERVASE.  I  warn  you  that  if  you  will  not  allow  me 
to  pay  for  this  delightful  cheese,  I  shall  insist  on  buying 
all  your  boot-laces.  Nay,  more,  I  shall  buy  all  your 
studs,  and  all  your  buttons.  Your  profession  would 
then  be  gone. 

SUSAN.  Well,  well,  shall  we  say  tuppence  ? 

GERVASE.  Tuppence  for  a  banquet  like  this  ?  My  dear 
friend,  nothing  less  than  half-a-crown  will  satisfy  me. 

SUSAN.  Sixpence.     Not  a  penny  more. 

GERVASE  (with  a  sigh).  Very  well,  then.  (He  begins 
to  feel  in  his  pocket,  and  in  so  doing  reveals  part  of  his 
dress.  SUSAN  opens  his  eyes  at  it,  and  then  goes  on  eating. 
GERVASE^/meta  his  purse  and  produces  sixpence,  which  he  gives 
to  SUSAN.)  Sir,  I  thank  you.  (He  resumes  his  breakfast?) 

SUSAN.  You  are  too  generous.  .  .  .  Forgive  me  for 
asking,  but  you  are  not  by  chance  a  fellow-traveller 
upon  the  road  ? 

GERVASE.  Do  you  mean  professionally  ? 

SUSAN.  Yes.  There  is  a  young  fellow,  a  contortionist 
and  sword-swallower,  known  locally  in  these  parts  as 
Humphrey  the  Human  Hiatus,  who  travels  from  village 

to  village.     Just  for  a  moment  I  wondered 

(He  glances  at  GERVASE'S  legs,  which  are  uncovered. 
GERVASE  hastily  wraps  his  coat  round  them.") 

GERVASE.  I  am  not  Humphrey.  No.  Gervase  the 
Cheese  Swallower,  .  .  .  Er — my  costume 


ACT  n]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  207 

SUSAN.  Please  say  nothing  more.  It  was  ill-mannered 
of  me  to  have  inquired.  Let  a  man  wear  what  he  likes. 
It  is  a  free  world. 

OERVASE.  Well,  the  fact  is,  I  have  been  having  a  bathe. 

SUSAN  (with  a  bow).  I  congratulate  you  on  your 
bathing  costume. 

GERVASE.  Not  at  all. 

SUSAN.  You  live  near  here  then  ? 

OEHVASE.  Little  Mailing.     I  came  over  in  a  car. 

SUSAN.  Little  Mailing  ?  That's  about  twenty  miles 
away. 

OERVASE.  Oh,  much  more  than  that  surely. 

SUSAN.  No.     There's  Hedgling  down  there. 

GERVASE  (surprised).  Hedgling  ?  Heavens,  how  I 
must  have  lost  my  way.  .  .  .  Then  I  have  been  within 
a  mile  of  her  all  night.  And  I  never  knew  1 

SUSAN.  You  are  married,  Mr.  Mallory  ? 

GERVASE.  No.    Not  yet. 

SUSAN.  Get  married. 

GERVASE.  What  ? 

SUSAN.  Take  my  advice  and  get  married. 

GERVASE.  You  recommend  it  ? 

SUSAN.  I  do.  .  .  .  There  is  no  companion  like  a  wife, 
if  you  marry  the  right  woman. 

GERVASE.  Oh  ? 

SUSAN.  I  have  been  married  thirty  years.  Thirty 
years  of  happiness. 

GERVASE.  But  in  your  profession  you  must  go  away 
from  your  wife  a  good  deal. 

SUSAN  (smiling).  But  then  I  come  back  to  her  a  good 
deal. 

GERVASE  (thoughtfully).  Yes,  that  must  be  rather 
jolly. 

SUSAN.  Why  do  you  think  I  welcomed  your  company 
so  much  when  I  came  upon  you  here  this  morning  ? 


208  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  n 

GERVASE  (modestly).  Oh,  well 

SUSAN.  It  was  something  to  tell  my  wife  when  I  got 
back  to  her.  When  you  are  married,  every  adventure 
becomes  two  adventures.  You  have  your  adventure, 
and  then  you  go  back  to  your  wife  and  have  your  adven- 
ture again.  Perhaps  it  is  a  better  adventure  that 
second  time.  You  can  say  the  things  which  you  didn't 
quite  say  the  first  time,  and  do  the  things  which  you 
didn't  quite  do.  When  my  week's  travels  are  over, 
and  I  go  back  to  my  wife,  I  shall  have  a  whole  week's 
happenings  to  tell  her.  They  won't  lose  in  the  telling, 
Mr.  Mallory.  Our  little  breakfast  here  this  morning — 
she  will  love  to  hear  about  that.  I  can  see  her  happy 
excited  face  as  I  tell  her  all  that  I  said  to  you,  and — 
if  I  can  remember  it — all  that  you  said  to  me. 

OERVASE  (eagerly).  I  say,  how  jolly  !  (Thoughtfully) 
You  won't  forget  what  I  said  about  the  Great  Percy  ? 
I  thought  that  was  rather  good. 

SUSAN.  I  hope  it  wasn't  too  good,  Mr.  Mallory.  If 
it  was,  I  shall  find  myself  telling  it  to  her  as  one  of 
my  own  remarks.  That's  why  I  say  "  Get  married." 
Then  you  can  make  things  fair  for  yourself.  You  can 
tell  her  all  the  good  things  of  mine  which  you  said. 

GERVASE.  But  there  must  be  more  in  marriage  than 
that. 

SUSAN.  There  are  a  million  things  in  marriage,  but 
companionship  is  at  the  bottom  of  it  all.  .  .  .  Do  you 
know  what  companionship  means  ? 

GERVASE.  How  do  you  mean  ?     Literally  ? 

SUSAN.  The  derivation  of  it  in  the  dictionary.  It 
means  the  art  of  having  meals  with  a  person.  Cynics 
talk  of  the  impossibility  of  sitting  opposite  the  same 
woman  every  day  at  breakfast.  Impossible  to  them, 
perhaps,  poor  shallow  -  hearted  creatures,  but  not 
impossible  to  two  people  who  have  found  what  love  is, 


ACT  n]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  209 

OERVASE.  It  doesn't  sound  very  romantic. 

SUSAN  (solemnly).  It  is  the  most  romantic  thing  in  the 
whole  world.  .  .  .  Some  more  cheese  ? 

OERVASE  (taking  it}.  Thank  you.  .  .  .  (Thoughtfully} 
Do  you  believe  in  love  at  first  sight,  Master  Susan  ? 

SUSAN.  Why  not  ?  If  it's  the  woman  you  love  at  first 
sight,  not  only  the  face. 

OERVASE.  I  see.  (After  a  pause)  It's  rather  hard  to 
tell,  you  know.  I  suppose  the  proper  thing  to  do  is 
to  ask  her  to  have  breakfast  with  you,  and  see  how  you 
get  on. 

SUSAN.  Well,  you  might  do  worse. 

OERVASE  (laughing).  And  propose  to  her  after  break- 
fast ? 

SUSAN.  If  you  will.  It  is  better  than  proposing  to 
her  at  a  ball  as  some  young  people  do,  carried  away 
suddenly  by  a  snatched  kiss  in  the  moonlight. 

OERVASE  (shaking  his  head).  Nothing  like  that  hap- 
pened last  night. 

SUSAN.  What  does  the  Great  Alfred  say  of  the  kiss  ? 

OERVASE.  I  never  read  the  Daily  Mail. 

SUSAN.  Tennyson,  Mr.  Mallory,  Tennyson. 

OERVASE.  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon. 

SUSAN.  "  The  kiss,"  says  the  Great  Alfred,  "  the 
woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be  weak  symbols  of  the  settled 
bliss,  the  comfort,  I  have  found  in  thee."  The  same 
idea,  Mr.  Mallory.  Companionship,  or  the  art  of  having 
breakfast  with  a  person.  (Getting  up)  Well,  I  must  be 
moving  on.  We  have  been  companions  for  a  short 
time  ;  I  thank  you  for  it.  I  wish  you  well. 

GERVASE  (getting  up).  I  say,  I've  been  awfully  glad  to 
meet  you.  And  I  shall  never  forget  the  breakfast  you 
gave  me. 

SUSAN.  It  is  friendly  of  you  to  say  so. 

GERVASE  (hesitatingly).  You  won't  mind  my  having 

P 


210  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  n 

another  one  when  Ernest  conies  back — I  mean,  if 
Ernest  comes  back  ?  You  won't  think  I'm  slighting 
yours  in  any  way  ?  But  after  an  outdoor  bathe,  you 

know,  one  does 

SUSAN.  Please  !  I  am  happy  to  think  you  have  such 
an  appetite. 

GERVASE  (holding  out  his  hand).  Well,  good-bye,  Mr. 
Susan.  (SUSAN  looks  at  his  hand  doubtfully,  and  GERVASE 
says  with  a  laugh)  Oh,  come  on  ! 

SUSAN  (shaking  if).  Good-bye,  Mr.  Mallory. 
GERVASE.  And  I  shan't  forget  what  you  said. 
SUSAN  (smiling).    I  expect   you   will,    Mr.    Mallory. 
Good-bye. 

[He  goes  of. 

GERVASE  (calling  after  him).  Because  it  wasn't  the 
moonlight,  it  wasn't  really.  It  was  just  Her.  (To 
himself)  It  was  just  Her.  ...  I  suppose  the  great 
Whatsisname  would  say,  "  It  was  just  She,"  but  then, 
that  isn't  what  I  mean. 

(GERVASE  watches  him  going  down  the  hill.  Then 
he  turns  to  the  other  side,  says,  "  Hallo  !  " 
suddenly  in  great  astonishment,  and  withdraws 
a  few  steps.) 

GERVASE.  It  can't  be  !  (He  goes  cautiously  forward 
and  looks  again)  It  is  ! 

(He  comes  back,  and  walks  gently  off  through  the  trees.) 

(MELISANDE  comes  in.     She  has  no  hat ;    her  hair 

is  in  two  plaits  to  her  waist ;    she  is  wearing 

a  dress  which  might  belong  to  any  century.     She 

stands  in  the  middle  of  the  glade,  looks  round 

it,  holds  out  her  hands  to  it  for  a  moment,  and 

then  clasps  them  with  a  sigh  of  happiness.  .  .  .) 

(GERVASE,  his  cloak  thrown  away,  comes  in  behind 

her.     For  a  moment  he  is  half-hidden  by  the 

trees.) 


ACTII]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  211 

OERVASE  (very  softly).  Princess  ! 

(She  hears  but  thinks  she  is  still  dreaming.     S/te 
smiles  a  little?) 

OERVASE  (a  little  more  loudly).     Princess  ! 

(She  listens  and  nods  to  herself.     OERVASE  steps  out 
into  the  open.) 

GERVASE.  Princess  ! 

(She  turns  round.) 

MELISANDE  (looking  at  him  wonderingly).  You  ! 

OERVASE.  At  your  service,  Princess. 

MELISANDE.  It  was  you  who  came  last  night. 

OERVASE.  I  was  at  your  father's  court  last  night.  I 
saw  you.  You  looked  at  me. 

MELISANDE.  I  thought  it  was  only  a  dream  when  I 
looked  at  you.  I  thought  it  was  a  dream  when  you 
called  me  just  now.  Is  it  still  a  dream  ? 

GERVASE.  If  it  is  a  dream,  let  us  go  on  dreaming. 

MELISANDE.  Where  do  you  come  from  ?     Fairyland  ? 

OERVASE.  This  is  Fairyland.  We  are  in  the  enchanted 
forest. 

MELISANDE  (with  a  sigh  of  happiness).  Ah  ! 

OERVASE.  You  have  been  looking  for  it  ? 

MELISANDE.  For  so  long.  (She  is  silent  for  a  little,  and 
then  says  with  a  smile)  May  one  sit  down  in  an  enchanted 
forest  ? 

OERVASE.  Your  throne  awaits  you.  (He  spreads  his 
cloak  over  the  log.) 

MELISANDE.  Thank  you.  .  .  .  Won't  you  sit,  too  ? 

GERVASE  (shaking  his  head).  1  haven't  finished  looking 
at  you  yet.  .  .  .  You  are  very  lovely,  Princess. 

MELISANDE.    Am  I  ? 

OERVASE.  Haven't  they  told  you  ? 
MELISANDE.  Perhaps  I  wondered  sometimes. 
GERVASE.  Very  lovely.  .  .  .  Have  you  a  name  which 
goes  with  it  ? 


212  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  H 

MELISANDE.  My  name  is  Melisande. 

GERVASE  (kis  whole  heart  in  if).  Melisande  ! 

MELISANDE  (content  at  last).  Ah  ! 

OERVASE  (solemnly').  Now  the  Princess  Melisande  was 
very  beautiful.  (He  lies  down  on  the  grass  near  her, 
looks  up  at  her  and  is  silent  for  a  little) 

MELISANDE  (smiling  shyly).  May  we  talk  about  you, 
now  ? 

GERVASE.  It  is  for  the  Princess  to  say  what  we  shall 
talk  about.  If  your  Royal  Highness  commands,  then 
I  will  even  talk  about  myself. 

MELISANDE.  You  see,  I  don't  know  your  name  yet. 

GERVASE.  I  am  called  Gervase. 

MELISANDE.  Gervase.     It  is  a  pretty  name. 

GERVASE.  I  have  been  keeping  it  for  this  morning. 

MELISANDE.  It  will  be  Prince  Gervase,  will  it  not,  if 
this  is  Fairyland  ? 

GERVASE.  Alas,  no.  For  I  am  only  a  humble  wood- 
cutter's son.  One  of  seven. 

MELISANDE.  Of  seven  ?  I  thought  that  humble  wood- 
cutters always  had  three  sons,  and  that  it  was  the 
youngest  who  went  into  the  world  to  seek  his  fortune. 

GERVASE.  Three — that's  right.  I  said  "  one  of 
several."  Now  that  I  count  them  up,  three.  (Counting 
on  his  fingers)  Er — Bowshanks,  er — Mulberry-face  and 
myself.  Three.  I  am  the  youngest. 

MELISANDE.  And  the  fairies  came  to  your  christening  ? 

GERVASE.  Now  for  the  first  time  I  think  that  they  did. 

MELISANDE  (nodding).  They  always  come  to  the 
christening  of  the  third  and  youngest  son,  and  they 
make  him  the  tallest  and  the  bravest  and  the  most 
handsome. 

GERVASE  (modestly).  Oh,  well. 

MELISANDE.  You  are  the  tallest  and  the  bravest  and 
the  most  handsome,  aren't  you  ? 


ACT  IT]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  213 

OERVASE  (with  a  modest  smile).  Well,  of  course,  Mul- 
berry-face is  hardly  a  starter,  and  then  Bowshanks — 
(he  indicates  ike  curve  of  his  legs) — I  mean,  there's  not 
much  competition. 

MELISANDE.  I  have  no  sisters. 

GERVASE.  The  Princess  never  has  sisters.  She  has 
suitors. 

MELISANDE  (with  a  sigh).  Yes,  she  has  suitors. 

GERVASE  (taking  out  his  dagger).  Tell  me  their  names 
that  I  may  remove  them  for  you. 

MELISANDE.  There  is  one  dressed  in  black  and  white 
who  seeks  to  win  my  hand. 

GER\ASE.(  feeling  the  point).  He  bites  the  dust  to-morrow. 

MELISANDE.  To-morrow  ? 

GERVASE.  Unless  it  rains  in  the  night.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  safer  if  we  arranged  for  him  to  bite  it  this 
afternoon. 

MELISANDE.  How  brave  you  are  ! 

GERVASE.  Say  no  more.     It  will  be  a  pleasure. 

MELISANDE.  Ah,  but  I  cannot  ask  you  to  make  this 
sacrifice  for  me. 

GERVASE.  The  sacrifice  will  be  his. 

MELISANDE.  But  are  you  so  certain  that  you  will  kill 
him  ?  Suppose  he  were  to  kill  you  ? 

GERVASE  (getting  up).  Madam,  when  the  third  son  of 
a  humble  woodcutter  engages  in  mortal  combat  with 
one  upon  whom  the  beautiful  Princess  has  frowned, 
there  can  be  but  one  end  to  the  struggle.  To  doubt 
this  would  be  to  let  Romance  go. 

MELISANDE.  You  are  right.  I  should  never  have 
doubted. 

GERVASE.  At  the  same  time,  it  would  perhaps  be  as 
well  to  ask  the  help  of  my  Uncle  Otto. 

MELISANDE.  But  is  it  fair  to  seek  the  assistance  of  an 
uncle  in  order  to  kill  one  small  black  and  white  suitor  ? 


214  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  n 

GERVASE.  Ah,  but  he  is  a  wizard.  One  is  always 
allowed  to  ask  the  help  of  a  wizard.  My  idea  was  that 
he  should  cast  a  spell  upon  the  presumptuous  youth 
who  seeks  to  woo  you,  so  that  to  those  who  gazed  upon 
him  he  should  have  the  outward  semblance  of  a  rabbit. 
He  would  then  realise  the  hopelessness  of  his  suit  and 
...  go  away. 

MELISANDE  (with  dignity}.  I  should  certainly  never 
marry  a  small  black  and  white  rabbit. 

GERVASE.  No,  you  couldn't,  could  you  ? 

MELISANDE  (gravely}.  No.  (Then  their  eyes  meet. 
There  is  a  twinkle  in  his  ;  hers  respond  ;  and  suddenly 
they  are  laughing  together.}  What  nonsense  you  talk  ! 

GERVASE.  Well,  it's  such  an  absurdly  fine  morning, 
isn't  it  ?  There's  a  sort  of  sparkle  in  the  air.  I'm  really 
trying  to  be  quite  sensible. 

MELISANDE  (making  room  for  him  at  her  feet).  Go  on 
talking  nonsense.  (He  sits  down  on  the  ground  and  leans 
against  the  log  at  her  side.}  Tell  me  about  yourself.  You 
have  told  me  nothing  yet,  but  that  (she  smiles  at  him} 
your  father  is  a  woodcutter. 

GERVASE.  Yes.     He — er — cuts  wood. 

MELISANDE.  And  you  resolved  to  go  out  into  the 
world  and  seek  your  fortune  ? 

GERVASE.  Yes.  You  see  if  you  are  a  third  son  of  a 
humble  woodcutter,  nobody  thinks  very  much  of  you 
at  home,  and  they  never  take  you  out  with  them  ; 
and  when  you  are  cutting  wood,  they  always  put  you 
where  the  sawdust  gets  into  your  mouth.  Because, 
you  see,  they  have  never  read  history,  and  so  they  don't 
know  that  the  third  and  youngest  son  is  always  the 
nicest  of  the  family. 

MELISANDE.  And  the  tallest  and  the  bravest  and  the 
most  handsome. 

GERVASE.  And  all  the  other  things  you  mention. 


ACT  ii]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  215 

MELISANDE.  So  you  ran  away  ? 

OERVASE.  So  I  ran  away — to  seek  my  fortune. 

MELISANDE.  But  your  uncle  the  wizard,  or  your  god- 
mother or  somebody,  gave  you  a  magic  ring  to  take 
with  you  on  your  travels  ?  (Nodding)  They  always  do, 
you  know. 

OERVASE  (showing  the  ring  on  his  finger).  Yes,  my  fairy 
godmother  gave  me  a  magic  ring.  Here  it  is. 

MELISANDE  (looking  at  if).  What  does  it  do  ? 

OERVASE.  You  turn  it  round  once  and  think  very  hard 
of  anybody  you  want,  and  suddenly  the  person  you  are 
thinking  of  appears  before  you. 

MELISANDE.  How  wonderful  !     Have  you  tried  it  yet  ? 

OERVASE.  Once.  .  .  .  That's  why  you  are  here. 

MELISANDE.  Oh  !  (Softly)  Have  you  been  thinking 
of  me  ? 

OERVASE.  All  night. 

MELISANDE.  I  dreamed  of  you  all  night. 

OERVASE  (happily).  Did  you,  Melisande  ?  How  dear 
of  you  to  dream  of  me  !  (Anxiously)  Was  I — was  I  all 
right  ? 

MELISANDE.    Oh,  yCS  ! 

OERVASE  (pleased).  Ah  !  (He  spreads  himself  a  little 
and  removes  a  speck  of  dust  from  his  sleeve?) 

MELISANDE  (thinking  of  it  still).  You  were  so  brave. 

GERVASE.  Yes,  I  expect  I'm  pretty  brave  in  other 
people's  dreams — I'm  so  cowardly  in  my  own.  Did  I 
kill  anybody  ? 

MELISANDE.  You  were  engaged  in  a  terrible  fight 
with  a  dragon  when  I  woke  up. 

OERVASE.  Leaving  me  and  the  dragon  still  asleep-  — 
I  mean,  still  fighting  ?  Oh,  Melisande,  how  could  you 
leave  us  until  you  knew  who  had  won  ? 

MELISANDE.  I  tried  so  hard  to  get  back  to  you. 

OERVASE.  I  expect  I  was  winning,  you  know.    I  wish 


216  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  n 

you  could  have  got  back  for  the  finish.  .  .  .  Melisande, 
let  me  come  into  your  dreams  again  to-night. 

MELISANDE.  You  never  asked  me  last  night.  You 
just  came. 

GERVASE.  Thank  you  for  letting  me  come. 

MELISANDE.  And  then  when  I  woke  up  early  this 
morning,  the  world  was  so  young,  so  beautiful,  so  fresh 
that  I  had  to  be  with  it.  It  called  to  me  so  clearly — 
to  come  out  and  find  its  secret.  So  I  came  up  here,  to 
this  enchanted  place,  and  all  the  way  it  whispered  to 
me — wonderful  things. 

OERVASE.  What  did  it  whisper,  Melisande  ? 

MELISANDE.  The  secret  of  happiness. 

GERVASE.  Ah,  what  is  it,  Melisande  ?  (She  smiles  and 
shakes  her  head).  ...  I  met  a  magician  in  the  woods 
this  morning. 

MELISANDE.  Did  he  speak  to  you  ? 

GERVASE.  He  told  me  the  secret  of  happiness. 

MELISANDE.  What  did  he  tell  you  ? 

GERVASE.  He  said  it  was  marriage. 

MELISANDE.  Ah,  but  he  didn't  mean  by  marriage 
what  so  many  people  mean. 

GERVASE.  He  seemed  a  very  potent  magician. 

MELISANDE.  Marriage  to  many  people  means  just 
food.  Housekeeping.  He  didn't  mean  that. 

GERVASE.  A  very  wise  and  reverend  magician. 

MELISANDE.  Love  is  romance.  Is  there  anything 
romantic  in  breakfast — or  lunch  ? 

GERVASE.  Well,  not  so  much  in  lunch,  of  course, 
but— 

MELISANDE.  How  well  you  understand  !  Why  do  the 
others  not  understand  ? 

GERVASE  (smiling  at  her).  Perhaps  because  they  have 
not  seen  Melisande. 

MELISANDE.  Oh  no,  no,  that  isn't  it.  All  the  others 


ACT  n]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  217 

OERVASE.  Do  you  mean  your  suitors  ? 

MELISANDE.  Yes.  They  are  so  unromantic,  so  material. 
The  clothes  they  wear  ;  the  things  they  talk  about. 
But  you  are  so  different.  Why  is  it  ? 

OERVASE.  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  because  I  am  the 
third  son  of  a  woodcutter.  Perhaps  because  they  don't 
know  that  you  are  the  Princess.  Perhaps  because  they 
have  never  been  in  the  enchanted  forest. 

MELISANDE.  What  would  the  forest  tell  them  ? 

OERVASE.  All  the  birds  in  the  forest  are  singing 
"  Melisande  "  ;  the  little  brook  runs  through  the  forest 
murmuring  "  Melisande  "  ;  the  tall  trees  bend  their 
heads  and  whisper  to  each  other  "  Melisande."  All 
the  flowers  have  put  on  their  gay  dresses  for  her.  Oh, 
Melisande  ! 

MELISANDE  (awed).  Is  it  true  ?  (They  are  silent  for  a 
little,  happy  to  be  together.  .  .  .  He  looks  back  at  her  and 
gives  a  sudden  little  laugh.")  What  is  it  ? 

GERVASE.  Just  you  and  I — together — on  the  top  of 
the  world  like  this. 

MELISANDE.  Yes,  that's  what  I  feel,  too.  (After  a 
pause)  Go  on  pretending. 

GERVASE.  Pretending  ? 

MELISANDE.  That  the  world  is  very  young. 

GERVASE.   We  are  very  young,  Melisande. 

MELISANDE  (timidly').     It  is  only  a  dream,  isn't  it  ? 

GERVASE.  Who  knows  what  a  dream  is  ?  Perhaps  we 
fell  asleep  in  Fairyland  a  thousand  years  ago,  and  all 
that  we  thought  real  was  a  dream,  until  now  at  last  we 
are  awake  again. 

MELISANDE.  How  wonderful  that  would  be. 

GERVASE.  Perhaps  we  are  dreaming  now.  But  is  it 
your  dream  or  my  dream,  Melisande  ? 

MELISANDE  (after  thinking  it  02tf).  I  think  I  would 
rather  it  were  your  dream,  Gervase.  For  then  I  should 


218  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  n 

be  in  it,  and  that  would  mean  that  you  had  been 
thinking  of  me. 

GERVASE.  Then  it  shall  be  my  dream,  Melisande. 

MELISANDE.  Let  it  be  a  long  one,  my  dear. 

GERVASE.  For  ever  and  for  ever. 

MELISANDE  (dreamily).  Oh,  I  know  that  it  is  only  a 
dream,  and  that  presently  we  shall  wake  up  ;  or  else 
that  you  will  go  away  and  I  will  go  away,  too,  and  we 
shall  never  meet  again  ;  for  in  the  real  world,  what 
could  I  be  to  you,  or  you  to  me  ?  So  go  on  pretending. 

(lie  stands  up  and  faces  her.) 

GERVASE.  Melisande,  if  this  were  Fairyland,  or  if  we 
were  knights  and  ladies  in  some  old  romance,  would 
you  trust  yourself  to  me  ? 

MELISANDE.  So  very  proudly. 

GERVASE.  You  would  let  me  come  to  your  father's 
court  and  claim  you  over  all  your  other  suitors,  and 
fight  for  you,  and  take  you  away  with  me  ? 

MELISANDE.  If  this  were  Fairyland,  yes. 

GERVASE.  You  would  trust  me  ? 

MELISANDE.  I  would  trust  my  lord. 

GERVASE  (smiling  at  her).  Then  I  will  come  for  the 
Princess  this  afternoon.  (With  sudden  feeling)  Ah,  how 
can  I  keep  away  now  that  I  have  seen  the  Princess  ? 

MELISANDE  (shyly — happily).  When  you  saw  me  last 
night,  did  you  know  that  you  would  see  me  again  ? 

GERVASE.  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  here. 

MELISANDE.     How    did    you    know    that    I    would 


come 


GERVASE.  On  such  a  morning — in  such  a  place — how 
could  the  loved  one  not  be  here  ? 

MELISANDE  (looking  atvay).  The  loved  one  ? 

GERVASE.  I  saw  you  last  night. 

MELISANDE  (softly).  Was  that  enough  ? 

GERVASE.  Enough,  yes.     Enough  ?     Oh  no,  no,  no  ! 


ACT  n]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  219 

MELISANDE  (nodding).  I  will  wait  for  you  this  after- 
noon. 

QERVASE.  And  you  will  come  away  with  me  ?  Out 
into  the  world  with  me  ?  Over  the  hills  and  far  away 
with  me  ? 

MKLISANDE  (softly).  Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 

OERVASE  (going  to  her).  Princess  ! 

MELISANDE.  Not  Princess. 

GERVASE.  Melisande  ! 

MELISANDE  (holding  out  her  hand  to  him).  Ah  ! 

GERVASE.  May  I  kiss  your  hands,  Melisande  ? 

MELISANDE.  They  are  my  lord's  to  kiss. 

GERVASE  (kissing  them).  Dear  hands. 

MELISANDE.  Now  I  shall  love  them,  too. 

GERVASE.  May  I  kiss  your  lips,  Melisande  ? 

MELISANDE  (proudly).  Who  shall,  if  not  my  lord  ? 

GERVASE.  Melisande  !     (He  touches  her  lips  with  his.) 

MELISANDE  (breaking  away  from  hint).  Oh  ! 

GERVASE  (triumphantly).  I  love  you,  Melisande  !  I 
love  you  ! 

MELISANDE  (wonderingly) .  Why  didn't  I  wake  up  when 
you  kissed  me  ?  We  are  still  here.  The  dream  goes  on. 

GERVASE.  It  is  no  dream,  Melisande.  Or  if  it  is  a 
dream,  then  in  my  dream  I  love  you,  and  if  we  are 
awake,  then  awake  I  love  you.  I  love  you  if  this  is 
Fairyland,  and  if  there  is  no  Fairyland,  then  my  love 
will  make  a  faery  land  of  the  world  for  you.  For  I  love 
you,  Melisande. 

MELISANDE  (timidly).  Are  we  pretending  still  ? 

GERVASE.  No,  no,  no  ! 

(She  looks  at  him  gravely  for  a  moment  and  then 
nods  her  head.) 

MELISANDE  (pointing).  I  live  down  there.  You  will 
come  for  me  ? 

GERVASE.  I  will  come. 


220  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  n 

MELISANDE.  I  am  my  lord's  servant.  I  will  wait  for 
him.  (She  moves  away  from  him.  Then  she  curtsies  and 
says)  This  afternoon,  my  lord. 

(She  goes  down  the  kill.') 

(He  stands  looking  after  her.  While  he  is  standing 
there,  ERN  comes  through  the  trees  with 
breakfast?) 


ACT  III 

It  is  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day- 
JANE  is  sitting  on  the  sofa  in  the  hall,  glancing  at  a 
paper,  but  evidently  rather  bored  with  it,  and  hoping 
that  somebody — BOB  BY,  did  you  say  ? — mill  appear 
presently.  However,  it  is  MR.  KNOWLE  who  comes  in. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Ah,  Jane  ! 

JANE  (looking  up).  Hallo,  Uncle  Henry.  Did  you  have 
a  good  day  ? 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Well,  Peters  and  I  had  a  very  enjoyable 
drive. 

JANE.  But  you  found  nothing  at  the  sale  ?  What  a 
pity! 

MR.  KNOWLE  (taking  a  catalogue  from  his  pocket}. 
Nothing  which  I  wanted  myself,  but  there  were  several 
very  interesting  lots.  Peters  was  strongly  tempted  by 
Lot  29 — "  Two  hip-baths  and  a  stuffed  crocodile." 
Very  useful  things  to  have  by  you  if  you  think  of 
getting  married,  Jane,  and  setting  up  house  for  yourself. 
I  don't  know  if  you  have  any  thoughts  in  that  direction  ? 

JANE  (a  little  embarrassed].  Well,  I  suppose  I  shall 
some  day. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Ah  !   .  .  .  Where's  Bobby  ? 

JANE  (carelessly}.  Bobby?    Oh,  he's  about  somewhere. 

MR.  KNONVLE.  I  think  Bobby  would  like  to  hear  about 
Lot  29.  (Returning  to  his  catalogue}  Or  perhaps  Lot  42. 
"  Lot  42 — Twelve  aspidistras,  towel-horse,  and  '  The 
221 


222  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  in 

Maiden's  Prayer.'"  All  for  seven  and  sixpence.  I  ought 
to  have  had  Bobby  with  me.  He  could  have  made  a 
firm  offer  of  eight  shillings.  ...  By  the  way,  I  have  a 
daughter,  haven't  I  ?  How  was  Sandy  this  morning  ? 

JANE.  I  didn't  see  her.  Aunt  Mary  is  rather  anxious 
about  her. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Has  she  left  us  for  ever  ? 

JANE.  There's  nothing  to  be  frightened  about  really. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  I'm  not  frightened. 

JANE.  She  had  breakfast  before  any  of  us  were  up, 
and  went  out  with  some  sandwiches  afterwards,  and  she 
hasn't  come  back  yet. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  A  very  healthy  way  of  spending  the 
day.  (MRS.  KNOWLE  comes  in)  Well,  Mary,  I  hear  that 
we  have  no  daughter  now. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Ah,  there  you  are,  Henry.  Thank 
Heaven  that  you  are  back  safely. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  My  dear,  I  always  meant  to  come  back 
safely.  Didn't  you  expect  me  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  I  had  given  up  hope.  Jane  here  will 
tell  you  what  a  terrible  morning  I  have  had  ;  prostrate 
on  the  sofa,  mourning  for  my  loved  ones.  My  only  child 
torn  from  me,  my  husband — dead. 

MR.  KNOWLE  (surprised).  Oh,  I  was  dead  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  I  pictured  the  car  smashed  to  atoms, 
and  you  lying  in  the  road,  dead,  with  Peters  by  your  side. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Ah  !     How  was  Peters  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (with  a  shrug).  I  didn't  look.  What  is  a 
chauffeur  to  one  who  has  lost  her  husband  and  her  only 
child  in  the  same  morning  ? 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Still,  I  think  you  might  have  looked. 

JANE.  Sandy's  all  right,  Aunt  Mary.  You  know  she 
often  goes  out  alone  all  day  like  this. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Ah,  is  she  alone  ?  Jane,  did  you  count 
the  gardeners  as  I  asked  you  ? 


ACT  in]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  223 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Count  the  gardeners  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  To  make  sure  that  none  of  them  is 
missing  too. 

JANE.  It's  quite  all  right,  Aunt  Mary.  Sandy  will  be 
back  by  tea-time. 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (resigned).  It  all  comes  of  christening 
her  Melisande.  You  know,  Henry,  I  quite  thought  you 
said  Millicent. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Well,  talking  about  tea,  my  dear — at 
which  happy  meal  our  long-lost  daughter  will  be 
restored  to  us — we  have  a  visitor  coming,  a  nice  young 
fellow  who  takes  an  interest  in  prints. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  I've  heard  nothing  of  this,  Henry. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  No,  my  dear,  that's  why  I'm  telling 
you  now. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  A  young  man  ? 

MR.  KNOWLE.    Yes. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Nice-looking  ? 

MR.  KNOWLE.    Yes. 
MRS.  KNOWLE.    Rich  ? 

MR.  KNOWLE.  I  forgot  to  ask  him,  Mary.  However, 
we  can  remedy  that  omission  as  soon  as  he  arrives. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  It's  a  very  unfortunate  day  for  him  to 
have  chosen.  Here's  Sandy  lost,  and  I'm  not  fit  to  be 
seen,  and — Jane,  your  hair  wants  tidying — 

MR.  KNOWLE.  He  is  not  coming  to  see  you  or  Sandy 
or  Jane,  my  dear  ;  he  is  coming  to  see  me.  Fortunately, 
I  am  looking  very  beautiful  tliis  afternoon. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Jane,  you  had  better  be  in  the  garden, 
dear,  and  see  if  you  can  stop  Sandy  before  she  comes 
in,  and  just  give  her  a  warning.  I  don't  know  what 
she'll  look  like  after  roaming  the  fields  all  day,  and 
falling  into  pools — 

MR.  KNOWLE.  A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress  kindles  in 
clothes  a  wantonness. 


224  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  in 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  I  will  go  and  tidy  myself.  Jane,  I 
think  your  mother  would  like  you  to — but,  after  all, 
one  must  think  of  one's  own  child  first.  You  will  tell 
Sandy,  won't  you  ?  We  had  better  have  tea  in  here. 
.  .  .  Henry,  your  trousers — (she  looks  to  see  that  JANE  is 
not  listening,  and  then  says  in  a  loud  whisper)  your 
trousers 

MR.  KNOWLE.  I'm  afraid  I  didn't  make  myself  clear, 
Mary.  It's  a  young  fellow  who  is  coming  to  see  my 
prints  ;  not  the  Prince  of  Wales  who  is  coming  to  see 
my  trousers. 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (turning  to  JANE).  You'll  remember, 
Jane  ? 

JANE  (smiling").  Yes,  Aunt  Mary. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  That's  a  good  girl. 

[She  goes  out. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Ah  !  .  .  .  Your  aunt  wasn't  very  lucid, 
Jane.  Which  one  of  you  is  it  who  is  going  to  marry  the 
gentleman  ? 

JANE.  Don't  be  so  absurd,  Uncle  Henry. 

MR.  KNOWLE  (taking  out  his  catalogue  again).  Perhaps  he 
would  be  interested  in  Lot  29-  (BOBBY  comes  in  through 
the  windows.}  Ah,  here's  Bobby.  Bobby,  they  tell  me 
that  you  think  of  setting  up  house. 

BOBBY  (looking  quickly  at  JANE).    Who  told  you  that  ? 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Now,  starting  with  two  hip-baths  and 
a  stuffed  crocodile  for  nine  shillings  and  sixpence,  and 
working  up  to  twelve  aspidistras,  a  towel-horse  and  "  The 
Maiden's  Prayer  "  for  eight  shillings,  you  practically 
have  the  spare  room  furnished  for  seventeen  and  six. 
Biit  perhaps  I  had  better  leave  the  catalogue  with  you. 
(He  presses  it  into  the  bewildered  BOBBY'S  hands)  I  must 
go  and  tidy  myself  up.  Somebody  is  coming  to  propose 
to  me  this  afternoon. 

[He  hurries  out. 


ACT  in]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  225 

(BOBBY  looks  after  him  blankly,  and  then  turns  to 
JANE.) 

BOBBY.  I  say,  what's  happened  ? 

JANE.  Happened  ? 

BOBBY.  Yes,  why  did  he  say  that  about  my  setting 
up  house  ? 

JANE.  I  think  he  was  just  being  funny.  He  is  some- 
times, you  know. 

BOBBY.  You  don't  think  he  guessed 

JANE.  Guessed  what  ?    About  you  and  Melisande  ? 

BOBBY.  I  say,  shut  up,  Jane.  I  thought  we  agreed 
not  to  say  anything  more  about  that. 

JANE.  But  what  else  could  he  have  guessed  ? 

BOBBY.  You  know  well  enough. 

JANE  (shaking  her  head).  No,  I  don't. 

BOBBY.  I  told  you  this  morning. 

JANE.  What  did  you  tell  me  ? 

BOBBY.  You  know. 

JANE.  No,  I  don't. 

BOBBY.  Yes,  you  do. 

JANE.  No,  I  don't. 

BOBBY  (coining  closer).  All  right,  shall  I  tell  you 
again  ? 

JANE  (edging  away].  I  don't  want  to  hear  it. 

BOBBY.  How  do  you  know  you  don't  want  to  hear  it, 
if  you  don't  know  what  it  is  ? 

JANE.  I  can  guess  what  it  is. 

BOBBY.  There  you  are  ! 

JANE.  It's  what  you  say  to  everybody,  isn't  it  ? 

BOBBY  (loftily).  If  you  want  to  know,  Miss  Bagot,  I 
have  only  said  it  to  one  other  person  in  my  life,  and 
that  was  in  mistake  for  you. 

JANE  (coldly).  Melisande  and  I  are  not  very  much 
alike,  Mr.  Coote. 

BOBBY.  No.    You're  much  prettier. 


226  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  in 

JANE  (turning  her  head  away).  You  don't  really  think 
so.  Anyhow,  it  isn't  true. 

BOBBY.  It  is  true,  Jane.     I  swear  it. 

JANE.  Well,  you  didn't  think  so  yesterday. 

BOBBY.  Why  do  you  keep  talking  about  yesterday  ? 
I'm  talking  about  to-day. 

JANE.  A  girl  has  her  pride,  Bobby. 

BOBBY.  So  has  a  man.  I'm  awfully  proud  of  being  in 
love  with  you. 

JANE.  That  isn't  what  I  mean. 

BOBBY.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

JANE  (awkwardly).  Well — well — well,  what  it  comes 
to  is  that  you  get  refused  by  Sandy,  and  then  you 
immediately  come  to  me  and  expect  me  to  jump  at  you. 

BOBBY.  Suppose  I  had  waited  a  year  and  then  come 
to  you,  would  that  have  been  better  ? 

JANE.  Of  course  it  would. 

BOBBY.  Well,  really  I  can't  follow  you,  darling. 

JANE  {indignantly}.  You  mustn't  call  me  darling. 

BOBBY.  Mustn't  call  you  what  ? 

JANE  (awkwardly).  Darling. 

BOBBY.  Did  I  call  you  darling  ? 

JANE  (shortly].  Yes. 

BOBBY  (to  himself}.  "  Darling."  No,  I  suppose  I 
mustn't.  But  it  suits  you  so  awfully  well — darling. 

(She  stamps  her  foot)  I'm  sorry,  darl I  mean  Jane, 

but  really  I  can't  follow  you.  Because  you're  so 
frightfully  fascinating,  that  after  twenty-four  hours  of 
it,  I  simply  have  to  tell  you  how  much  I  love  you, 
then  your  pride  is  hurt.  But  if  you  had  been  so 
frightfully  unattractive  that  it  took  me  a  whole  year 
to  see  anything  in  you  at  all,  then  apparently  you'd 
have  been  awfully  proud. 

JANE.  You  have  known  me  a  whole  year,  Bobby. 

BOBBY.  Not  really,  you  know.     Directly  I  saw  you 


ACT  in]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  227 

and  Sandy  together  I  knew  I  was  in  love  with  one  of 
you,  but — well,  love  is  a  dashed  rummy  thing,  and  I 
thought  it  was  Sandy.  And  so  I  didn't  really  see  you 
till  last  night,  when  you  were  so  awfully  decent  to  me. 

JANE  (wistfully).  It  sounds  very  well,  but  the  trouble 
is  that  it  will  sound  just  as  well  to  the  next  girl. 

BOBBY.  What  next  girl  ? 

JANE.  The  one  you  propose  to  to-morrow. 

BOBBY.  You  know,  Jane,  when  you  talk  like  that  I 
feel  that  you  don't  deserve  to  be  proposed  to  at  all. 

JANE  (loftily).  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  be. 

BOBBY  (coming  closer).  Are  you  ? 

JANE.  Am  I  what  ? 

BOBBY.  Quite  sure. 

JANE.  I  should  have  thought  it  was  pretty  obvious 
seeing  that  I've  just  refused  you. 

BOBBY.  Have  you  ? 

JANE.  Have  I  what  ? 

BOBBY.  Refused  me. 

JANE.  I  thought  I  had. 

BOBBY.  And  would  you  be  glad  if  I  went  away  and 
never  saw  you  again  ?  (She  hesitates)  Honest,  Jane. 
Would  you  ? 

JANE  (awkwardly).  Well,  of  course,  I  like  you,  Bobby. 
I  always  have. 

BOBBY.  But  you  feel  that  you  would  like  me  better 
if  I  were  somebody  else's  husband  ? 

JANE  (indignantly).  Oh,  I  never  said  that. 

BOBBY.  Dash  it,  you've  been  saying  it  all  this  after- 
noon. 

JANTE  (n-eakly).  Bobby,  don't  ;  I  can't  argue  with  you. 
But  really,  dear,  I  can't  say  now  that  I  will  marry  you. 
Oh,  you  must  understand.  Oh,  think  what  Sandy 

BOBBY.  We  won't  tell  Sandy. 

JANE  (surprised).  But  she's  bound  to  know. 


228  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  in 

BOBBY.  We  won't  tell  anybody. 

JANE  (eagerly).  Bobby  ! 

BOBBY  (nodding).  Just  you  and  me.  Nobody  else  for 
a  long  time.  A  little  private  secret. 

JANE.  Bobby  ! 

BOBBY  (coming  to  her).  Is  it  a  bargain,  Jane  ?  Because 
if  it's  a  bargain 

JANE  (going  away  from  him).  No,  no,  Bobby.  Not 
now.  I  must  go  upstairs  and  tidy  myself — no,  I  mustn't, 
I  must  wait  for  Melisande — no,  Bobby,  don't.  Not 
yet.  I  mean  it,  really.  Do  go,  dear,  anybody  might 
come  in. 

(BOBBY,  who  has  been  following  her  round  the  hall, 
as  she  retreats  nervously,  stops  and  nods  to  her.) 

BOBBY.  All  right,  darling,  I'll  go. 

JANE.  You  mustn't  say  "  darling."  You  might  say  it 
accidentally  in  front  of  them  all. 

BOBBY  (grinning).  All  right,  Miss  Bagot  ...  I  am 
going  now,  Miss  Bagot.  (At  the  windows}  Good-bye, 
Miss  Bagot.  (JANE  blows  him  a  kiss.  He  bows)  Your 
favour  to  hand,  Miss  Bagot.  (He  turns  and  sees 
MELISANDE  coming  through  the  garden)  Hallo,  here's 
Sandy  !  (He  hurries  off  in  the  opposite  direction?) 

MELISANDE.  Oh,  Jane,  Jane  !     (She  sinks  into  a  chair.) 

JANE.  What,  dear  ? 

MELISANDE.  Everything. 

JANE.  Yes,  but  that's  so  vague,  darling.  Do  you 
mean  that 

MELISANDE  (dreamily).  I  have  seen  him  ;  I  have  talked 
to  him  ;  he  has  kissed  me. 

JANE  (amazed).  Kissed  you  ?  Do  you  mean  that  he 
has — kissed  you  ? 

MELISANDE.  I  have  looked  into  his  eyes,  and  he  has 
looked  into  mine. 

JANE.  Yes,  but  who  ? 


ACT  in]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  229 

MELISANDE.  The  true  knight,  the  prince,  for  whom  I 
have  been  waiting  so  long. 

JANE.  But  who  is  he  ? 

MELISANDE.  They  call  him  Gervase. 

JANE.  Gervase  who  ? 

MELISANDE  (scornfully).  Did  Elaine  say,  "  Lancelot 
who  "  when  they  told  her  his  name  was  Lancelot  ? 

JANE.  Yes,  dear,  but  this  is  the  twentieth  century. 
He  must  have  a  name. 

MELISANDE  (dreamily).  Through  the  forest  he  came  to 
me,  dressed  in  blue  and  gold. 

JANE  (sharply).  Sandy  !  (Struck  with  an  idea)  Have 
you  been  out  all  day  without  your  hat,  darling  ? 

MELISANDE  (vaguely).  Have  I  ? 

JANE.  I  mean — blue  and  gold.  They  don't  do  it 
nowadays. 

MELISANDE  (nodding  to  her).  He  did,  Jane. 

JANE.  But  how  ? — Why  ?     Who  can  he  be  ? 

MELISANDE.  He  said  he  was  a  humble  woodcutter's 
son.  That  means  he  was  a  prince  in  disguise.  He 
called  me  his  princess. 

JANE.  Darling,  how  could  he  be  a  prince  ? 

MELISANDE.  I  have  read  stories  sometimes  of  men 
who  went  to  sleep  and  woke  up  thousands  of  years 
afterwards  and  found  themselves  in  a  different 
world.  Perhaps,  Jane,  he  lived  in  those  old  days, 
and 

JANE.  Did  he  talk  like  an  ordinary  person  ? 

MELISANDE.  Oh  no,  no  ! 

JANE.  Well,  it's  really  extraordinary.  .  .  .  Was  he 
a  gentleman  ? 

MELISANDE  (smiling  at  her).  I  didn't  ask  him,  Jane. 

JANE  (crossly).  You  know  what  I  mean. 

MELISANDE.  He  is  coming  this  afternoon  to  take  me 
away. 


230  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  in 

JANE  (amazed).  To  take  you  away  ?  But  what  about 
Aunt  Mary  ? 

MELISANDE  (vaguely}.  Aunt  Mary  ?  What  has  she  got 
to  do  with  it  ? 

JANE  (impatiently").  Oh,  but (With  a  shrug  of 

resignation)  I  don't  understand.  Do  you  mean  he's 
coming  here  ?  (MELISANDE  nods  gravely?)  Melisande, 
you'll  let  me  see  him  ? 

MELISANDE.  Yes.  I've  thought  it  all  out.  I  wanted 
you  here,  Jane.  He  will  come  in  ;  I  will  present  you  ; 
and  then  you  must  leave  us  alone.  But  I  should  like 
you  to  see  him.  Just  to  see  how  different,  how  utterly 
different  he  is  from  every  other  man.  .  .  .  But  you  will 
promise  to  go  when  you  have  seen  him,  won't  you  ? 

JANE  (nodding).  I'll  say,  "  I'm  afraid  I  must  leave  you 
now,  and "  Sandy,  how  can  he  be  a  prince  ? 

MELISANDE.  When  you  see  him,  Jane,  you  will  say, 
"  How  can  he  not  be  a  prince  ?  ' 

JANE.  But  one  has  to  leave  princes  backward.  I 
mean — he  won't  expect — you  know 

MELISANDE.  I  don't  think  so.  Besides,  after  all,  you 
are  my  cousin. 

JANE.  Yes.  I  think  I  shall  get  that  in  ;  just  to  be 
on  the  safe  side.  "  Well,  cousin,  I  must  leave  you  now, 
as  I  have  to  attend  my  aunt."  And  then  a  sort  of — 
not  exactly  a  curtsey,  but — (she  practises,  murmuring  the 
words  to  herself}.  I  suppose  you  didn't  happen  to  mention 
me  to  him  this  morning  ? 

MELISANDE  (half  smiling).  Oh  no  ! 

JANE  (hurt).  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  have. 
WThat  did  you  talk  about  ? 

MELISANDE.  I  don't  know.  (She  grips  JANE'S  arm  sud- 
denly]  Jane,  I  didn't  dream  it  all  this  morning,  did  I  ? 
It  did  happen  ?  I  saw  him — he  kissed  me — he  is  coming 
for  me — he 


ACT  in]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  231 

Enter  ALICE 

ALICE.  Mr.  Gervase  Mallory. 

MELISANDE  (happily).  Ah  ! 

(OERVASE  comes  in,  an  apparently  ordinary  young 
man  in  a  loud  golfing  suit.) 

GERVASE.  How  do  you  do  ? 

MELISANDE  (looking  at  him  with  grooving  amazement  and 
horror).  Oh  ! 

(JANE  looks  from  one  to  the  other  in  bewilderment?) 

GERVASE.  I  ought  to  explain.  Mr.  Knowle  was  kind 
enough  to  lend  me  some  petrol  last  night ;  my  car 
broke  down  ;  he  was  good  enough  to  say  I  might  come 
this  afternoon  and  see  his  prints.  I  am  hoping  to  be 
allowed  to  thank  him  again  for  his  kindness  last  night. 
And — er — I've  brought  back  the  petrol. 

MELISANDE  (still  with  her  eyes  on  him).  My  father  will 
no  doubt  be  here  directly.  This  is  my  cousin,  Miss 
Bagot. 

GERVASE  (bowing).  How  do  you  do  ? 

JANE  (nervously).  How  do  you  do  ?  (After  a  pause) 
Well,  I'm  afraid  I  must  leave  you  now,  as 

MELISANDE  (with  her  eyes  still  on  GERVASE,  putting  out  a 
hand  and  clutching  at  JANE).  No  ! 

JANE  (startled).  What  ? 

MELISANDE.  Don't  go,  Jane.  Do  sit  down,  won't  you, 
Mr. — er 

GERVASE.  Mallory. 

MELISANDE.  Mr.  Mallory. 

GERVASE.  Thank  you. 

MELISANDE.  Where  will  you  sit,  Mr.  Mallory  ?  (She 
is  still  talking  in  an  utterly  expressionless  voice?) 

GERVASE.  Thank  you.  Where  are  you (he  indi- 
cates the  sofa?) 

MELISANDE  (moving  to  it,  but  still  holding  JANE).  Thank 
you. 


232  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  in 

(MELISANDE  and  JANE  sit  down  together  on  the  sofa. 
OERVASE  sits  on  a  chair  near.  There  is  an 
awkward  silence.) 

JANE  (half  getting  up).  Well,  I'm  afraid  I  must 

(MELISANDE  pulls  her  down.     She  subsides.) 

MELISANDE.  Charming  weather  we  are  having,  are 
we  not,  Mr.  Mallory  ? 

GERVASE  (enthusiastically).  Oh,  rather.  Absolutely 
top-hole. 

MELISANDE  (to  JANE).  Absolutely  top-hole  weather,  is 
it  not,  Jane  ? 

JANE.  Oh,  I  love  it. 

MELISANDE.  You  play  golf,  I  expect,  Mr.  Mallory  ? 

OERVASE.  Oh,  rather.  I've  been  playing  this  morning. 
(With  a  smile)  Pretty  rotten,  too,  I'm  afraid. 

MELISANDE.  Jane  plays  golf .  (To  JANE)  You're  pretty 
rotten,  too,  aren't  you,  Jane  ? 

JANE.  Bobby  and  I  were  both  very  bad  to-day. 

MELISANDE.  I  think  you  will  like  Bobby,  Mr.  Mallory. 
He  is  staying  with  us  just  now.  I  expect  you  will  have 
a  good  deal  in  common.  He  is  on  the  Stock  Exchange. 

GERVASE  (smiling).  So  am  I. 

MELISANDE  (valiantly  repressing  a  shudder).  Jane,  Mr. 
Mallory  is  on  the  Stock  Enchange.  Isn't  that  curious  ? 
I  felt  sure  that  he  must  be  directly  I  saw  him. 

(There  is  another  awkward  silence.) 

JANE  (getting  up).  Well,  I'm  afraid  I  must 

MELISANDE  (pulling  her  down).  Don't  go,  Jane.  I 
suppose  there  are  a  great  many  of  you  on  the  Stock 
Exchange,  Mr.  Mallory  ? 

GERVASE.  Oh,  quite  a  lot. 

MELISANDE.  Quite  a  lot,  Jane.  .  .  .  You  don't  know 
Bobby— Mr.  Coote  ? 

GERVASE.  N — no,  I  don't  think  so. 

MELISANDE.  I  suppose  there  are  so  many  of  you,  and 


ACT  in]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  233 

you  dress  so  much  alike,  and  look  so  much  alike,  that 
it's  difficult  to  be  quite  sure  whom  you  do  know. 

OERVASE.  Yes,  of  course,  that  makes  it  more  difficult. 

MELISANDE.  Yes.  You  see  that,  don't  you,  Jane  ?  .  .  . 
You  play  billiards  and  bridge,  of  course,  Mr.  Mallory  ? 

GERVASE.  Oh  yes. 

MELISANDE.  They  are  absolutely  top-hole  games, 
aren't  they  ?  Are  you — pretty  rotten  at  them  ? 

GERVASE.  Well 

MEHSANDE  (getting  up).  Ah,  here's  my  father. 

Enter  MR.  KNOWLE 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Ah,  Mr.  Mallory,  delighted  to  see  you. 
And  Sandy  and  Jane  to  entertain  you.  That's  right. 

(They  shake  hands.") 

GERVASE.  How  do  you  do  ? 

(ALICE  comes  in  with  tea.) 

MR.  KNOWLE.  I've  been  wasting  my  day  at  a  sale.  I 
hope  you  spent  yours  more  profitably.  (GERVASE  laughs 
pleasantly.)  And  what  have  you  been  doing,  Sandy  ? 

MELISANDE.  Wasting  mine,  too,  Father. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Dear,  dear.  Well,  they  say  that  the 
wasted  hours  are  the  best. 

MELISANDE  (moving  to  the  door) .  I  think  I  will  go  and 

(MRS.  KNOWLE  comes  in  with  outstretched  hands.) 

MR.  KNOWLE.  My  dear,  this  is  Mr.  Mallory. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  My  dear  Mr.  Mallory  !  (Turning 
round)  Sandy,  dear !  (MELISANDE  comes  slorvly  back.) 
How  do  you  do  ? 

GERVASE  (shaking  hands).  How  do  you  do  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Sandy,  dear  !  (To  GERVASE)  My 
daughter,  Melisande,  Mr.  Mallory.  My  only  child. 

GERVASE.  Oh — er — we 

MELISANDE.  Mr.  Mallory  and  I  have  met,  Mother. 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (indicating  JANE).  And  our  dear  Jane. 


234  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  in 

My  dear  sister's  only  daughter.  But  dear  Jane  has  a 
brother.  Dear  Harold  !  In  the  Civil  Service.  Sandy, 
dear,  will  you  pour  out  tea  ? 

MELISANDE  (resigned).  Yes,  Mother.  (She  goes  to  the 
tea-table.) 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (going  to  the  sofa).  I  am  such  an  invalid 
now,  Mr.  Mallory 

GERVASE  (helping  her).  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry.     Can  I ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Thank  you.  Dr.  Anderson  insists  on 
my  resting  as  much  as  possible.  So  my  dear  Melisande 
looks  after  the  house  for  me.  Such  a  comfort.  You 
are  not  married  yourself,  Mr.  Mallory  ? 

GERVASE.  No.     Oh  no. 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (smiling  to  herself).  Ah  ! 

MELISANDE.  Jane,  Mother's  tea.     (JANE  takes  it.) 

GERVASE  (coming  forward).  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon. 
Let  me 

JANE.  It's  all  right. 

(GERVASE  takes  up  a  cake-stand) 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Where's  Bobby  ?  Bobby  is  the  real 
expert  at  this. 

MELISANDE.  I  expect  Mr.  Mallory  is  an  expert,  too, 
Father.  You  enjoy  tea-parties,  I  expect,  Mr.  Mallory  ? 

GERVASE.  I  enjoy  most  things,  Miss  Knowle.  (To 
MRS.  KNOWLE)  What  will  you  have  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Thank  you.  I  have  to  be  careful. 
Dr.  Anderson  insists  on  my  being  careful,  Mr.  Mallory. 
(Confidentially)  Nothing  organic,  you  understand.  Both 
my  husband  and  I — Melisande  has  an  absolutely  sound 
constitution. 

MELISANDE  (indicating  cup] .  Jane.  .  .  .  Sugar  and  milk, 
Mr.  Mallory  ? 

GERVASE.  Please.  (To  MR.  KNOWLE)  Won't  you  have 
this,  sir  ? 

MR.  KNOWLE.  No  thank  you.     I  have  a  special  cup. 


ACT  in]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  235 

(He  takes  a  large  cup  from  MELISANDE).  A  family  tradi- 
tion, Mr.  Mallory.  But  whether  it  is  that  I  am  supposed 
to  require  more  nourishment  than  the  others,  or  that 
I  can't  be  trusted  with  anything  breakable,  History 
does  not  relate. 

GERVASE  (laughing).  Well,  I  think  you're  lucky.  I 
like  a  big  cup. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Have  mine. 

GERVASE.  No,  thanks. 

BOBBY  (coming  in).  Hallo  !     Tea  ? 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Ah,  Bobby,  you're  just  in  time.  (To 
GERVASE)  This  is  Mr.  Coote.  Bobby,  this  is  Mr.  Mallory. 
(They  nod  to  each  other  and  say,  "  How  do  you 
do  ?  ") 

MELISANDE  (indicating  a  seat  next  to  her).  Come  and  sit 
here,  Bobby. 

BOBBY  (mho  was  making  for  JANE)  Oh — er — righto. 
(He  sits  down.') 

MR.  KNOWLE  (to  GERVASE).  And  how  did  the  dance  go 
last  night  ? 

JANE.  Oh,  were  you  at  a  dance  ?     How  lovely  ! 

MELISANDE.  Dance  ? 

MR.  KNOWLE.  And  a  fancy  dress  dance,  too,  Sandy. 
You  ought  to  have  been  there. 

MELISANDE  (understanding).  All  ! 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  My  daughter  is  devoted  to  dancing, 
Mr.  Mallory.  Dances  so  beautifully,  they  all  say. 

BOBBY.  Where  was  it  ? 

GERVASE.  Collingham. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  And  did  they  all  fall  in  love  with  you  ? 
You  ought  to  have  seen  him,  Sandy. 

GERVASE.  Well,  I'm  afraid  I  never  got  there. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Dear,  dear.  .  .  .  Peters  is  in  love  just 
now.  .  .  .  I  hope  he  didn't  give  you  cider  in  mistake  for 
petrol. 


236  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  in 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  You  have  a  car,  Mr.  Mallory  ? 

GERVASE.    Yes. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Ah  !  (To  MELiSANDE)  Won't  Mr.  Mal- 
lory have  some  more  tea,  Sandy  ? 

MELISANDE.  Will  you  have  some  more  tea,  Mr. 
Mallory  ? 

GERVASE.  Thank    you.      (To    MRS.    KNOWLE)    Won't 

you 

(He  begins  to  get  up.} 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Please  don't  trouble.  I  never  have 
more  than  one  cup.  Dr.  Anderson  is  very  firm  about 
that.  Only  one  cup,  Mrs.  Knowle. 

BOBBY  (to  MELISANDE).  Sandwich  ?  Oh,  you're  busy. 
Sandwich,  Jane  ? 

JANE  (taking  one).  Thank  you. 

BOBBY  (to  GERVASE).  Sandwich  ? 

GERVASE.  Thank  you. 

BOBBY  (to  MR.  KNOWLE).  Sandwich  ? 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Thank  you,  Bobby.  Fortunately  nobody 
minds  what  /  eat  or  drink. 

BOBBY  (to  himself).  Sandwich,  Mr.  Coote  ?  Thank 
you.  (He  takes  one.) 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (to  GERVASE).  Being  such  an  invalid,  Mr. 
Mallory,  it  is  a  great  comfort  to  me  to  have  Melisande 
to  look  after  the  house. 

GERVASE.  I  am  sure  it  is. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Of  course,  I  can't  expect  to  keep  her 
for  ever. 

MELISANDE  (coldly).  More  tea,  Jane  ? 

JANE.  Thank  you,  dear. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  It's  extraordinary  how  she  has  taken 
to  it.  I  must  say  that  I  do  like  a  girl  to  be  a  good 
housekeeper.  Don't  you  agree,  Mr.  Mallory  ? 

GERVASE.  Well,  of  course,  all  that  sort  of  thing  is 
rather  important. 


ACT  in]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  237 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  That's  what  I  always  tell  Sandy. 
"  Happiness  begins  in  the  kitchen,  Sandy." 

MELISANDE.  I'm  sure  Mr.  Mallory  agrees  with  you, 
Mother. 

GERVASE  (laughing).  Well,  one  must  eat. 

DOBBY  (passing  plate).  Have  another  sandwich  ? 

GERVASE  (taking  one).  Thanks. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Do  you  live  in  the  neighbourhood,  Mr. 
Mallory  ? 

GERVASE.  About  twenty  miles  away.    Little  Mailing. 

JANE  (helpfully*).  Oh,  yes. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Well,  I  hope  we  shall  see  you  here 
again. 

GERVASE.  That's  very  kind  of  you  indeed.  I  shall  love 
to  come. 

MELISANDE.  More  tea,  Father  ? 

MR.  KNOWLE.  No,  thank  you,  my  love. 

MELISANDE.  More  tea,  Mr.  Mallory  ? 

GERVASE.  No,  thank  you. 

MR.  KNOWLE  (getting  up).  I  don't  want  to  hurry  you, 
Mr.  Mallory,  but  if  you  have  really  finished 

GERVASE  (getting  up).  Right. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  You  won't  go  without  seeing  the 
garden,  Mr.  Mallory  ?  Sandy,  when  your  father  has 
finished  with  Mr.  Mallory,  you  must  show  him  the 
garden.  We  are  very  proud  of  our  roses,  Mr.  Mallory. 
Melisande  takes  a  great  interest  in  the  roses. 

GERVASE.  I  should  like  very  much  to  see  the  garden. 
(Going  to  her}  Shall  I  see  you  again,  Mrs.  Knowle.  .  .  . 
Don't  get  up,  please. 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (gelling  up).  In  case  we  don't — (she  holds 
out  her  hand). 

GERVASE  (shaking  it).  Good-bye.  And  thank  you  so 
much. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Not  good-bye.     Au  revoir. 


238  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  in 

OERVASE  (smiling).  Thank  you.  (With  a  bow  to  JANE 
and  BOBBY)  Good-bye,  in  case 

BOBBY.  Cheero. 

JANE.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Mallory. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Well,  come  along.  (As  they  go  ouf)  It 
is  curious  how  much  time  one  has  to  spend  in  saying 
"  How  do  you  do  "  and  "  Good-bye."  I  once  calculated 
that  a  man  of  seventy.  .  .  . 

[MR.  KNOWLE  and  GERVASE  go  out. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Jane,  dear,  would  you  mind  coming 
with  me  to  the  drawing-room,  and  helping  me  to — er 

JANE  (resigned).  Of  course,  Aunt  Mary. 

[They  go  towards  the  door. 

BOBBY  (with  his  mouth  full).  May  I  come  too,  Mrs. 
Knowle  ? 

MELISANDE.  You  haven't  finished  your  tea,  Bobby. 

BOBBY.  I  shan't  be  a  moment.  (He  picks  up  his 
cup.} 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Please  come,  dear  Mr.  Coote,  when 
you  have  finished. 

[MRS.  KNOWLE  goes  out. 

(JANE  turns  at  the  door,  sees  that  MELISANDE  is  not 
looking,  and  blows  a  hasty  kiss  to  BOBBY.) 

MELISANDE.  More  tea,  Bobby  ? 

BOBBY.  No  thanks. 

MELISANDE.  Something  more  to  eat  ? 

BOBBY.  No  thanks.  (He  gets  up  and  walks  towards  the 
door.~) 

MELISANDE.  Bobby  ! 

BOBBY  (turning).  Yes  ? 

MELISANDE.  There's  something  I  want  to  say  to  you. 
Don't  go. 

BOBBY.  Oh  !     Righto.     (He  comes  slowly  back.) 

MELISANDE  (with  difficulty,  after  a  pause).  I  made  a 
mistake  yesterday. 


ACT  in]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  239 

BOBBY  (not  understanding).  A  mistake  ?    Yesterday  ? 

MELISANDE.  Yes.  .  .  .  You  were  quite  right. 

BOBBY.  How  do  you  mean  ?     When  ? 

MELISANDE.  When  you  said  that  girls  didn't  know 
their  own  minds. 

BOBBY.  Oh  !  (With  an  awkward  laugK)  Yes.  Well 
— er — I  don't  expect  any  of  us  do,  really,  you  know. 
I  mean — er — that  is  to  say 

MELISANDE.  I'm  sorry  I  said  what  I  did  say  to  you 
last  night,  Bobby.  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  all  those 
things. 

BOBBY.  I  say,  that's  all  right 

MELISANDE.  I  didn't  mean  them.  And — and  Bobby 
— I  will  marry  you  if  you  like. 

BOBBY  (staggered).  Sandy  ! 

MELISANDE.  And  it  was  silly  of  me  to  mind  your 
calling  me  Sandy,  and  to  say  what  I  did  about  your 
clothes,  and  I  will  marry  you,  Bobby.  And — and  thank 
you  for  wanting  it  so  much. 

BOBBY.  I  say,  Sandy.     I  say  !     I  say 

MELISANDE  (offering  her  cheek).  You  may  kiss  me  if 
you  like,  Bobby. 

BOBBY.  I  say  !  .  .  .  Er — er — (he  kisses  her  gingerly) 
thanks !  .  .  .  Er — I  say 

MELISANDE.  What  is  it,  Bobby  ? 

BOBBY.  I  say,  you  know — (he  tries  again)  I  don't  want 
you  to — to  feel  that — I  mean,  just  because  I  asked  you 
twice — I  mean  I  don't  want  you  to  feel  that — well,  I 
mean  you  mustn't  do  it  just  for  my  sake,  Sandy.  I 
mean  Melisande. 

MELISANDE.  You  may  call  me  Sandy. 

BOBBY.  Well,  you  see  what  I  mean,  Sandy. 

MELISANDE.  It  isn't  that,  Bobby.    It  isn't  that. 

BOBBY.  You  know,  I  was  thinking  about  it  last  night 
— afterwards,  you  know — and  I  began  to  see,  I  began 


240  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  m 

to  see  that  perhaps  you  were  right.  I  mean  about  my 
not  being  romantic  and — and  all  that.  I  mean,  I'm 
rather  an  ordinary  sort  of  chap,  and 

MELISANDE  (sadly).  We  are  all  rather  ordinary  sort  of 
chaps. 

BOBBY  (eagerly).  No,  no.  No,  that's  where  you're 
wrong,  Sandy.  I  mean  Melisande.  You  aren't  ordinary. 
I  don't  say  you'd  be  throwing  yourself  away  on  me, 
but — but  I  think  you  could  find  somebody  more  suitable. 
(Earnestly").  I'm  sure  you  could.  I  mean  somebody  who 
would  remember  to  call  you  Melisande,  and  who  would 
read  poetry  with  you  and — and  all  that.  I  mean,  there 
are  lots  of  fellows 

MELISANDE.  I  don't  understand.  Don't  you  want  to 
marry  me  now  ? 

BOBBY  (with  dignity],  I  don't  want  to  be  married  out 
of  pity. 

MELISANDE  (coldly).  I  have  told  you  that  it  isn't  out 
of  pity. 

BOBBY.  Well,  what  is  it  out  of  ?  I  mean,  after  what 
you  said  yesterday  about  my  tie,  it  can't  be  love.  If 
you  really  loved  me 

MELISANDE.  Are  you  under  the  impression  that  I  am 
proposing  to  you  ? 

BOBBY  (taken  aback).  W-what  ? 

MELISANDE.  Are  you  flattering  yourself  that  you  are 
refusing  me  ? 

BOBBY.  I  say,  shut  up,  Sandy.  You  know  it  isn't 
that  at  all. 

MELISANDE.  I  think  you  had  better  join  Jane.  (Care- 
lessly) It  is  Jane,  isn't  it  ? 

BOBBY.  I  say,  look  here (She  doesn't)  Of  course, 

I  know  you  think  I'm  an  awful  rotter.  .  .  .  Well  .  .  . 
well — oh,  damn  ! 

MELISANDE.  Jane  is  waiting  for  you. 


ACT  in]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  241 

MRS.  KNOWLE  comes  in. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Oh,  Mr.  Coote,  Jane  is  waiting  for 
you. 

BOBBY.  Oh — er 

MELISANDE.  Jane  is  waiting  for  you. 
BOBBY  (realising  that  he  is  not  quite  at  his  best).  Er — 
oh — er,  righto.  (He  goes  to  the  door  and  hesitates  there) 
Er — (Now  if  he  can  only  think  of  something  really  good, 
he  may  yet  carry  it  off".)  Er — (something  really  witty} — er 
— er,  righto  !  (Pie  goes  out — to  Join  JANE,  who  is  waiting 
for  him.) 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (in  a  soft  gentle  voice").  Where  is  your 
father,  dear  ?  In  the  library  with  Mr.  Mallory  ?  .  .  . 
I  want  to  speak  to  him.  Just  on  a  little  matter  of 
business.  .  .  .  Dear  child  ! 

[She  goes  to  the  library. 
MELISANDE.  Oh  i     How  horrible  ! 

(She  walks  about,  pulling  at  her  handkerchief  and 
telling  herself  that  she  wont  cry.  But  she  feels 
that  she  is  going  to,  and  she  goes  to  the  open 
windows,  and  stands  for  a  moment  looking  out, 
trying  to  recover  herself?) 

GERVASE  comes  in. 

QVKVASE  (gently).  Princess!  (She  hears  ;  her  hand  closes 
and  tightens  ;  but  she  says  nothing?)  Princess  ! 

(JVith  an  effort  she  controls  herself,  turns  round  and 

speaks  coldly?) 

MELISANDE.  Please  don't  call  me  by  that  ridiculous 
name. 

GERVASE.  Melisande  ! 

MELISANDE.  Nor  by  that  one. 

GERVASE.  Miss  Knowle. 

MELISANDE.  Yes  ?     What  do  you  want,  Mr.  Mallory  ? 

GERVASE.  I  want  to  marry  you. 

R 


242  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  in 

MELISANDE  (taken  by  surprise).  Oh  !  .  .  .  How  dare  you! 

OERVASE.  But  I  told  you  this  morning. 

MELISANDE.  I  think  you  had  better  leave  this  morning 
out  of  it. 

OERVASE.  But  if  I  leave  this  morning  out  of  it,  then 
I  have  only  just  met  you. 

MELISANDE.  That  is  what  I  would  prefer. 

GERVASE.  Oh  !  .  .  .  Then  if  I  have  only  just  met 
you,  perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  straight  off  that 
I  want  to  marry  you. 

MELISANDE.    It  IS  UllUSUal. 

OERVASE.  Yes.  But  not  unusual  to  want  to  marry 
you. 

MELISANDE.  I  am  not  interested  in  your  wants. 

GERVASE.  Oh  !  (Gently)  I'm  sorry  that  we've  got  to 
forget  about  this  morning.  (Gomg  closer  to  her]  Is  it  so 
easy  to  forget,  Melisande  ? 

MELISANDE.  Very  easy  for  you,  I  should  think. 

GERVASE.  But  not  for  you  ? 

MELISANDE  (bitterly).  You  dress  up  and  amuse  yourself, 
and  then  laugh  and  go  back  to  your  ordinary  life  again 
— you  don't  want  to  remember  that,  do  you,  every  time 
you  do  it  ? 

GERVASE.  You  let  your  hair  down  and  flirt  with  me 
and  laugh  and  go  home  again,  but  you  can't  forget. 
Why  should  I  ? 

MELISANDE  (furiously).  How  dare  you  say  I  flirted 
with  you  ? 

GERVASE.  How  dare  you  say  I  laughed  at  you  ? 

MELISANDE.  Do  you  think  I  knew  you  would  be  there 
when  I  went  up  to  the  wood  ? 

GERVASE.  Do  you  think  /  knew  you  would  be  there 
when  /  went  up  ? 

MELISANDE.  Then  why  were  you  there  all  dressed  up 
like  that  ? 


ACT  in]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  243 

GERVASE.  My  car  broke  down  and  I  spent  the  night 
in  it.  I  went  up  the  hill  to  look  for  breakfast. 

MELISANDE.  Breakfast  !    That's  all  you  think  about. 

OERVASE  (cheerfully).  Well,  it's  always  cropping  up. 

MELISANDE  (in  disgust).  Oh  !  (She  moves  away  from 
him  and  then  turns  round  holding  out  her  hand)  Good-bye, 
Mr.  Mallory. 

OERVASE  (taking  if).  Good-bye,  Miss  Knowle.  .  .  . 
(Gently')  May  I  kiss  your  hands,  Melisande  ? 

MELISANDE  (pathetically).  Oh,  don't !  (She  hides  her 
face  in  them,) 

OEUVASE.  Dear  hands.  .  .  .  May  I  kiss  your  lips, 
Melisande  ?  (She  says  nothing.  He  comes  closer  to  her) 
Melisande  ! 

(He  is  about  to  put  his  arms  round  her,  but  she 
breaks  amay  from  him.) 

MELISANDE.  Oh,  don't,  don't !  What's  the  good  of 
pretending  ?  It  was  only  pretence  this  morning — 
what's  the  good  of  going  on  with  it  ?  I  thought  you 
were  so  different  from  other  men,  but  you're  just  the 
same,  just  the  same.  You  talk  about  the  things  they 
talk  about,  you  wear  the  clothes  they  wear.  You  were 
my  true  knight,  my  fairy  Prince,  this  morning,  and  this 
afternoon  you  come  down  dressed  like  that  (she  waves 
her  hand  at  if)  and  tell  me  that  you  are  on  the  Stock 
Exchange  !  Oh,  can't  you  see  what  you've  done  ?  All 
the  beautiful  world  that  I  had  built  up  for  you  and  me 
— shattered,  shattered. 

GERVASE  (going  to  her).  Melisande  ! 

MELISANDE.    No,  no  ! 

GERVASE  (stopping).  All  right. 
MELISAXDE  (recovering  herself).  Please  go. 
GERVASE  (with  a  smile).  Well,  that's  not  quite  fair, 
you  know. 

MELISANDE.  What  do  you  mean  ? 


244  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  in 

QERVASE.  Well,  what  about  my  beautiful  world — the 
world  that  /  had  built  up  ? 

MELISANDE.  I  don't  understand. 

OERVASE.  What  about  your  pretence  this  morning  ? 
I  thought  you  were  so  different  from  other  women, 
but  you're  just  the  same,  just  the  same.  You  were 
my  true  lady,  my  fairy  Princess,  this  morning  ;  and  this 
afternoon  the  Queen,  your  mother,  disabled  herself  by 
indigestion,  tells  me  that  you  do  all  the  housekeeping 
for  her  just  like  any  ordinary  commonplace  girl.  Your 
father,  the  King,  has  obviously  never  had  a  battle-axe  in 
his  hand  in  his  life  ;  your  suitor,  Prince  Robert  of  Coote, 
is  much  more  at  home  with  a  niblick  than  with  a  lance  ; 
and  your  cousin,  the  Lady  Jane 

MELISANDE  (sinking  on  to  the  sofa  and  hiding  her  face). 
Oh,  cruel,  cruel  ! 

GERVASE  (remorsefully).  Oh,  forgive  me,  Melisande. 
It  was  horrible  of  me. 

MELISANDE.  No,  but  it's  true.  How  could  any  romance 
come  into  this  house  ?  Now  you  know  why  I  wanted  you 
to  take  me  away — away  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  with  you. 

OERVASE.  Well,  that's  what  I  want  to  do. 

MELISANDE.  Ah,  don't !  When  you're  on  the  Stock 
Exchange  ! 

GERVASE.  But  there's  plenty  of  romance  on  the  Stock 
Exchange.  (Nodding  his  head)  Oh  yes,  you  want  to 
look  out  for  it. 

MELISANDE  (reproachfully).  Now  you're  laughing  at  me 
again. 

GERVASE.  My  dear,  I'm  not.  Or  if  I  am  laughing  at 
you,  then  I  am  laughing  at  myself  too.  And  if  we  can 
laugh  together,  then  we  can  be  happy  together, 
Melisande. 

MELISANDE.  I  want  romance,  I  want  beauty.  I  don't 
want  jokes. 


ACT  in]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  245 

GERVASE.  I  see  what  it  is.  You  don't  like  my  knicker- 
bockers. 

MELISANDE  (bewildered).  Did  you  expect  me  to  ? 

OERVASE.  No  (After  a  pause)  1  think  that's  why  I 
put  'em  on.  (She  looks  at  him  in  surprise.}  You  see, 
we  had  to  come  back  to  the  twentieth  century  some 
time  ;  we  couldn't  go  on  pretending  for  ever.  Well, 
here  we  are — (indicating  his  clothes) — back.  But  I  feel 
just  as  romantic,  Melisande.  I  want  beauty — your 
beauty — just  as  much.  (He  goes  to  her.) 

MELISANDE.  Which  Melisande  do  you  want  ?  The 
one  who  talked  to  you  this  morning  in  the  wood,  or 
the  one  who — (bitterly")  does  all  the  housekeeping  for 
her  mother  ?  (Violently}  And  badly,  badly,  badly  ! 

OERVASE.  The  one  who  does  all  the  housekeeping  for 
her  mother — and  badly,  badly,  badly,  bless  her,  because 
she  has  never  realised  what  a  gloriously  romantic  thing 
housekeeping  is. 

MELISANDE  (amazed).  Romantic  ! 

GERVASE  (with  enthusiasm}.  Most  gloriously  romantic. 
.  .  .  Did  you  ever  long  when  you  were  young  to  be 
wrecked  on  a  desert  island  ? 

MELISANDE  (clasping  her  hands].  Oh  yes  ! 

GERVASE.  You  imagined  yourself  there — alone  or  with 
a  companion  ? 

MELISANDE.  Often  ! 

GERVASE.  And  what  were  you  doing  ?  What  is  the 
romance  of  the  desert  island  which  draws  us  all  ? 
Climbing  the  bread-fruit  tree,  following  the  turtle  to 
see  where  it  deposits  its  eggs,  discovering  the  spring 
of  water,  building  the  hut — housekeeping,  Melisande. 
...  Or  take  Robinson  Crusoe.  When  Man  Friday 
came  along  and  left  his  footprint  in  the  sand,  why  did 
Robinson  Crusoe  stagger  back  in  amazement  ?  Because 
he  said  to  himself,  like  a  good  housekeeper,  "  By  Jove, 


246  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  in 

I'm  on  the  track  of  a  servant  at  last."  There's  romance 
for  you  ! 

MELISANDE  (smiling  and  shaking  her  head  at  him).  What 
nonsense  you  talk ! 

GERVASE.  It  isn't  nonsense  ;  indeed,  indeed  it  isn't. 
There's  romance  everywhere  if  you  look  for  it.  You 
look  for  it  in  the  old  fairy-stories,  but  did  they  find  it 
there  ?  Did  the  gentleman  who  had  just  been  given 
a  new  pair  of  seven-league  boots  think  it  romantic  to 
be  changed  into  a  fish  ?  He  probably  thought  it  a 
confounded  nuisance,  and  wondered  what  on  earth  to 
do  with  his  boots.  Did  Cinderella  and  the  Prince  find 
the  world  romantic  after  they  were  married  ?  Think  of 
the  endless  silent  evenings  which  they  spent  together, 
with  nothing  in  common  but  an  admiration  for  Cinder- 
ella's feet — do  you  think  they  didn't  long  for  the 
romantic  days  of  old  ?  And  in  two  thousand  or  two 
hundred  thousand  years,  people  will  read  stories  about 
us,  and  sigh  and  say,  "  Will  those  romantic  days  never 
come  back  again  ?  "  Ah,  they  are  here  now,  Melisande, 
for  us  ;  for  the  people  with  imagination  ;  for  you  and 
for  me. 

MELISANDE.  Are  they  ?  Oh,  if  I  could  believe  they 
were  ! 

GERVASE.  You  thought  of  me  as  your  lover  and  true 
knight  this  morning.  Ah,  but  what  an  easy  thing  to 
be  !  You  were  my  Princess.  Look  at  yourself  in  the 
glass— how  can  you  help  being  a  princess  ?  But  if  we 
could  be  companions,  Melisande  !  That's  difficult  ; 
that's  worth  trying. 

MELISANDE  (gently}.  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ? 

GERVASE.  Get  used  to  me.  See  me  in  a  top-hat — see 
me  in  a  bowler-hat.  Help  me  with  my  work  ;  play 
games  with  me — I'll  teach  you  if  you  don't  know  how. 
I  want  to  share  the  world  with  you  for  all  our  lives. 


ACT  in]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  247 

That's  a  long  time,  you  know  ;  we  can't  do  it  on  one 
twenty-minutes'  practice  before  breakfast.  We  can  be 
lovers  so  easily — can  we  be  friends  ? 

MELISANDE  (looking  at  him  gravely).  You  are  very 
wise. 

GERVASE.  I  talked  with  a  wise  man  in  the  wood  this 
morning  ;  I've  been  thinking  over  what  he  said. 
(Suddenly)  But  when  you  look  at  me  like  that,  how  I 
long  to  be  a  fool  and  say,  "  Come  away  with  me  now, 
now,  now,"  you  wonderful,  beautiful,  maddening 
woman,  you  adorable  child,  you  funny  foolish  little  girl. 
(Holding  up  a  finger)  Smile,  Melisande.  Smile  !  (Slowly, 
reluctantly,  she  gives  him  a  smile.}  I  suppose  the  fairies 
taught  you  that.  Keep  it  for  me,  will  you — but  give  it 
to  me  often.  Do  you  ever  laugh,  Melisande  ?  We 
must  laugh  together  sometimes — that  makes  life  so 
easy. 

MELISANDE  (with  a  happy  little  laugh).  Oh,  what  can  I 
say  to  you  ? 

GERVASE.  Say,  "  I  think  I  should  like  you  for  a 
companion,  Gervase." 

MELISANDE  (shyly).  I  think  I  should  like  you  for  a 
companion,  Gervase. 

GERVASE.  Say,  "  Please  come  and  see  me  again, 
Gervase." 

MELISANDE.  Please  come  and  see  me  again,  Gervase. 

GERVASE  (jumping  up  and  waving  his  hand.)  Say, 
"  Hooray  for  things  !  " 

MELISANDE  (standing  up,  but  shyly  still).  Hooray  for 
things  ! 

GERVASE.  Thank  you,  Melisande  ...  I  must  go. 
(He  presses  her  hand  and  goes  ;  or  seems  to  be  going. 
But  suddenly  he  comes  back,  bends  on  one  knee,  raises  her 
hand  on  his,  and  kisses  it)  My  Princess  ! 

[Then  GERVASE  goes  out. 


248  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE  [ACT  m 

(MELISANDE  stays  there,  looking  after  him,  her  hand 
to  her  cheek.  .  .  .  But  one  cannot  stand  thus 
for  ever.     The  new  life  must  begin.     With  a 
little  smile  at  herself,  at  GERVASE,  at  things, 
she  fetches  out  the  Great  Book  from  its  hiding- 
place,  where  she  had  buried  it  many  weeks  ago 
in  disgust.     Now  it  comes  into  its  own.     She 
settles  down  with  it  in  her  favourite  chair.  .  .  .) 
MELISANDE    (reading).  To    make    Bread -Sauce.  .  .  . 
Take  an  onion,  peel  and  quarter  it,  and  simmer  it  in 
milk.  .  .  . 

(But  you  know  how  the  romantic  passage  goes.  We 
leave  her  with  it,  curled  up  in  the  chair,  this 
adorable  child,  this  funny  foolish  little  girl.) 


THE    STEPMOTHER 

A   PLAY   IN  ONE   ACT 


249 


CHARACTERS 

SIR  JOHN  PEMBURY,  M.P. 

LADY  PEMBURY. 

PERKINS. 

THE  STRANGER. 


THE  first  performance  of  this  play  was  given  at  the 
Alhambra  Theatre  on  November  16,  1920,  with  the 
following  cast  : 

Sir  John  Pembury 
Lady  Pembury     - 
Perkins 
The  Stranger 


GILBERT  HARE. 
WINIFRED  EMERY. 
C.  M.  LOWNE. 
GERALD  DU  MAURIER. 


260 


THE    STEPMOTHER 

A  summer  morning.  The  sunniest  and  perhaps  the 
plensantest  room  in  the  London  house  of  SIR  JOHN 
PEMBURY,  M.P.  For  this  reason  LADY  PEMBURY  uses 
it  a  good  deal,  although  it  is  not  officially  hers.  It 
is  plainly  furnished,  and  probably  set  out  to  be  a  sort 
of  waiting-room  for  SIR  JOHN'S  many  callers,  but 
LADY  PEMBURY  has  left  her  mark  upon  it. 

PERKINS,  the  butler,  inclining  to  stoutness,  but  not  yet  past 
his  prime,  leads  the  way  in,  followed  by  THE  STRANGER. 
PERKINS  has  already  placed  him  as  "  one  of  the  lower 
classes,"  but  the  intelligent  person  in  the  pit  perceives 
that  he  is  something  better  than  that,  though  whether 
he  is  in  the  process  of  falling  from  a  higher  estate, 
or  of  rising  to  it,  is  not  so  clear.  He  is  thirty  odd, 
shabbily  dressed  (but  then,  so  are  most  of  us  nowadays), 
and  ill  at  ease  ;  not  because  he  is  shabby,  but  because 
he  is  ashamed  of  himself.  To  make  up  for  this,  he 
adopts  a  blustering  manner,  as  if  to  persuade  himself 
that  he  is  a  fine  fellow  after  all.  There  is  a  touch  of 
commonness  about  his  voice,  but  he  is  not  uneducated. 

PERKINS.  I'll  tell  Sir  John  you're  here,  but  I  don't 
say  he'll  see  you,  mind. 

STRANGER.  Don't  you  worry  about  that.     He'll  see 
me  right  enough. 

251 


252  THE  STEPMOTHER 

PERKINS.  He's  busy  just  now.     Well (He  looks  at 

THE  STRANGER  doubtfully .) 

STRANGER  (bitterly).  I  suppose  you  think  I've  got  no 
business  in  a  gentleman's  house.  Is  that  it  ? 

PERKINS.  Well,  I  didn't  say  so,  did  I  ?  Maybe  you're 
a  constituent  ?  Being  in  the  'Ouse  of  Commons,  we 
get  some  pretty  queer  ones  at  times.  All  sorts,  as  you 
might  say.  .  .  .  P'raps  you're  a  deputation  ? 

STRANGER  (violently).  What  the  hell's  it  got  to  do 
with  you  who  I  am.  You  go  and  tell  your  master  I'm 
here — that's  all  you've  got  to  do.  See  ? 

PERKINS  (unruffled).  Easy,  now,  easy.  You  'aven't 
even  told  me  your  name  yet.  Is  it  the  Shah  of  Persia 
or  Mr.  Bottomley  ? 

STRANGER.  The  less  said  about  names  the  better. 
You  say,  "  Somebody  from  Lambeth  " — he'llknow  what 
I  mean. 

PERKINS  (humorously).  Ah,  I  beg  your  pardon — the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  I  didn't  recognise  your 
Grace. 

STRANGER  (angrily).  It's  people  like  you  who  make 
one  sick  of  the  world.  Parasites — servile  flunkeys, 
bolstering  up  an  effete  aristocracy.  Why  don't  you 
get  some  proper  work  to  do  ? 

PERKINS  (good-naturedly).  Now,  look  here,  young  man, 
this  isn't  the  time  for  that  sort  of  talk.  If  you've  got 
anything  you  want  to  get  off  your  chest  about  flunkeys 
or  monkeys,  or  whatever  it  may  be,  keep  it  till  Sunday 
afternoon — when  I'm  off  duty.  (He  comes  a  little  closer  to 
THE  STRANGER)  Four  o'clock  Sunday  afternoon — (jerking 
his  thumb  over  his  shoulder) — just  round  the  corner — in 
the  Bolton  Mews.  See  ?  Nobody  there  to  interrupt 
us.  See  ?  All  quite  gentlemanly  and  secluded,  and 
a  friend  of  mine  to  hold  the  watch.  See  ?  (He  edges 
closer  as  he  talks.) 


THE  STEPMOTHER  253 

STRANGER  (retreating  nervously}.  No  offence  meant, 
mate.  We're  in  the  same  boat — you  and  me  ;  we  don't 
want  to  get  fighting.  My  quarrel  isn't  with  you.  You 
go  and  tell  Sir  John  that  there's  a  gentleman  come  to 
see  him — wants  a  few  minutes  of  his  valuable  time — 
from  Lambeth  way.  He'll  know.  That's  all  right. 

PERKIXS  (drawing  back,  disappointedly).  Then  I  shan't 
be  seeing  you  Sunday  afternoon  ? 

STRANGER  (laughing  awkwardly).  There,  that's  all 
right.  No  offence  meant.  Somebody  from  Lambeth 
— that's  what  you've  got  to  say.  And  tell  'im  I'm  in  a 
hurry.  He'll  know  what  I  mean. 

PERKINS  (going  slowly  to  the  door).  Well,  it's  a  queer 
game,  but  being  in  the  'Ouse  of  Commons,  one  can't 
never  be  surprised.  All  sorts,  as  you  might  say,  all  sorts. 

[Exit  PERKINS. 

(THE  STRANGER,  left  alone,  walks  up  and  down  the 
room,  nervously  impatient.) 

LADY  PEMBURY  comes  in.  In  twenty-eight  years  of  happy 
married  life,  she  has  mothered  one  husband  and  five 
daughters,  but  she  has  never  had  a  son — her  only 
sorrow.  Her  motto  might  be,  "  It  is  just  as  easy  to 
be  kind" ;  and  whether  you  go  to  her  for  comfort 
or  congratulation,  you  will  come  away  feeling  that  she 
is  the  only  person  who  really  understands. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Oh  !  (She  stops  and  then  comes 
towards  THE  STRANGER)  How  do  you  do  ?  Are  you  waiting 
to  see  my  husband  ? 

STHAXGER  (taken  aback  at  seeing  her).  Yes. 

(He  is  not  sure  for  the  moment  if  this  upsets  his 

plans  or  forwards  them.) 

LADY  PEMBURY.  I  think  he's  engaged  just  now.  But 
he  won't  be  long.  Perkins  will  tell  him  as  soon  as  he  is 
free. 


254  THE  STEPMOTHER 

STRANGER  (contemptuously) .  His  name  is  Perkins,  is  it  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY  (surprised).  The  butler  ?     Yes. 

STRANGER  (contemptuously) .  Mister  Perkins,  the  Butler. 

LADY  PEMBURY  (with  a  friendly  smile).  You  don't  mind 
our  having  a  butler  ?  (She  picks  up  some  work  from  the 
table  and  takes  it  to  the  sofa?) 

STRANGER  (shrugging  his  shoulders}.  One  more  parasite. 

LADY  PEMBURY  (interested).  I  always  thought  parasites 
were  much  smaller  than  Perkins.  (Sitting  down)  Do 
sit  down,  won't  you  ?  (He  sits  down  reluctantly?)  You 
mustn't  mind  my  being  here.  This  is  really  my  work- 
room. I  expect  my  husband  will  take  you  into  his  own 
room  when  he's  ready. 

STRANGER.  Your  work-room  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY  (looking  up  at  him  with  a  smile).  You 
don't  seem  to  like  our  domestic  arrangements. 

STRANGER  (waving  his  hand  at  her  embroidery).  You 
call  that  work  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY  (pleasantly).  Other  people's  work 
always  seems  so  contemptible,  doesn't  it  ?  Now  I  expect 
if  you  tried  to  do  this,  you  would  find  it  very  difficult 
indeed,  and  if  I  tried  to  do  yours — what  is  your  work, 
Mr. — er Dear  me,  I  don't  even  know  your  name. 

STRANGER  (bitterly).  Never  mind  my  name.  Take  it 
that  I  haven't  got  a  name. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  But  your  friends  must  call  you  some- 
thing. 

STRANGER.  Take  it  that  I  haven't  got  any  friends. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Oh,  don't  say  that  !     How  can  you  ? 

STRANGER  (surly).  What's  it  matter  to  you  whether 
anybody  cares  about  me  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Oh,  never  mind  whether  anybody 
cares  about  you  ;  don't  you  care  about  anybody  ? 

STRANGER.  Nobody. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Poor,  poor  man  !     (Going  on  with  her 


THE  STEPMOTHER  255 

work]  If  you  can't  tell  me  your  name,  I  wish  you  would 
tell  me  what  work  you  do.  (Winningly)  You  don't 
mind  my  asking,  do  you  ? 

STRANGER.  I  can  tell  you  what  work  I'm  going  to  do 
after  to-day. 

LADY  PEMBURY.    Oh,  do  ! 

STRANGER  (violently).  None  ! 

LADY  PEMBURY  (surprised).  None  ? 

STRANGER.  No  more  work  after  to-day. 

LADY  PEMIHIRY.  Won't  that  be  rather  dull  ? 

STRANGER.  Well,  you  ouglit  to  know.  I'm  going  to 
be  one  of  the  idle  rich — like  you  and  Sir  John — and  let 
other  people  work  for  me. 

LADY  PEMBURY  (thoughtfully) .  I  shouldn't  have  said 
my  husband  was  idle.  But  there  it  is.  No  two  people 
ever  agree  as  to  what  is  work  and  what  isn't. 

STRANGER.  What  do  you  know  about  work — you 
aristocrats  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY  (mildly*).  My  husband  is  only  a  K.B.E., 
you  know.  Quite  a  recent  creation. 

STRANGER  (not  heeding  her).  You,  who've  been  brought 
up  in  the  lap  of  luxury — never  known  a  day's  discom- 
fort in  your  life 

LADY  PEMBURY.  My  dear  young  man,  you  really 
mustn't  tell  a  woman  who  has  had  five  children  that 
she  has  never  known  a  day's  discomfort  in  her  life.  .  .  . 
Ask  any  woman. 

STRANGER  (upsef).  What's  that  ?  .  .  .  I  didn't  come 
here  to  argue  with  you.  You  began  it.  Why  can't 
you  let  me  alone  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY  (going  to  a  side-table  and  taking  up  a 
photograph).  Five  children — all  girls — and  now  I'm  a 
grandmother.  (Showing  him  the  photograph)  There  ! 
That's  my  eldest  daughter  with  her  eldest  son  and  my 
eldest  grandchild.  Isn't  he  a  duck  ?  He's  supposed  to 


256  THE  STEPMOTHER 

be  like  me.  ...  I  never  had  a  son  of  my  own.  (THE 
STRANGER  has  taken  the  photograph  in  his  hand  and  is 
holding  it  awkwardly.}  Oh,  let  me  take  it  away  from  you. 
Other's  people's  relations  are  so  uninteresting,  aren't 
they  ?  (She  takes  it  away  and  puts  it  back  in  its  place. 
Then  she  returns  to  her  seat  and  goes  on  with  her  work} 
So  you've  made  a  lot  of  money  ?  How  exciting  for 
you  ! 

STRANGER  (grimly).  I  haven't  got  it  yet,  but  it's 
coming. 

LADY  PEMBURY.    Soon  ? 

STRANGER.  To-day. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  You're  not  married,  are  you  ? 

STRANGER.  You  want  to  know  a  lot,  don't  you  ? 
Well,  I'm  not  married. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  I  was  thinking  how  much  nicer  it  is 
when  you  can  share  that  sort  of  news  with  somebody 
else,  somebody  you  love.  It  makes  good  news  so  much 
better,  and  bad  news  so  much  more  bearable. 

STRANGER.  That's  what  you  and  your  husband  do, 
is  it  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY  (nodding).  Always.  For  eight-aiid- 
twenty  years. 

STRANGER.  He  tells  you  everything,  eh  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Well,  not  his  official  secrets,  of  course. 
Everything  else. 

STRANGER.  Ha  !     I  wonder. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  But  you  have  nobody,  you  say.  Well, 
you  must  share  your  good  news  with  me.  Will  you  ? 

STRANGER.  Oh  yes,  you  shall  hear  about  it  all  right. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  That's  nice  of  you.  Well  then,  first 
question.  How  much  money  is  it  going  to  be  ? 

STRANGER  (thoughtfully).  Well,  I  don't  quite  know  yet. 
What  do  you  say  to  a  thousand  a  year  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Oh,  but  what  a  lot ! 


THE  STEPMOTHER  257 

STRANGER.  You  think  a  thousand  a  year  would  be  all 
right.  Enough  to  live  on  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY.  For  a  bachelor,  ample. 

STRANGER.  For  a  bachelor. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  There's  no  one  dependent  on  you  ? 

STRANGER.  Not  a  soul.     Only  got  one  relation  living. 

LADY  PEMBURY.    Oh  ? 

STRANGER  (enjoying  a  joke  of  his  own).  A  father. 
But  I  shall  not  be  supporting  him.  Oh  no.  Far 
from  it. 

LADY  PEMBURY  (a  little  puzzled  by  this,  though  she  is  not 
going  to  show  if)  Then  I  think  you  will  be  very  rich  with 
a  thousand  a  year. 

STRANGER.  Yes,  that's  what  7  thought.  I  should 
think  it  would  stand  a  thousand. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  What  is  it  ?  An  invention  of  some 
sort  ? 

STRANGER.  Oh  no,  not  an  invention.  ...  A  discovery. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  How  proud  she  would  have  been  ! 

STRANGER.    Who  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Your  wife  if  you  had  had  one  ;  your 
mother  if  she  had  been  alive. 

STRANGER  (violently}.  Look  here,  you  leave  my  mother 

out  of  it.     My  business  is  with  Sir  John (sneeringly) 

Sir  John  Pembury,  K.B.E.  If  I  want  to  talk  about  my 
mother,  he  and  I  will  have  a  nice  little  talk  together 
about  her.  Yes,  and  about  my  father,  too. 

(LADY  PEMBURY  understands  at  last.     She  stands  up 
slowly,  and  looks  at  him,  horrified.} 

LADY  PEMBURY.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

STRANGER.  A  thousand  a  year.  You  said  so  yourself. 
Yes,  I  think  it's  worth  a  thousand  a  year. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Who  is  your  father  ?  What's  your 
name  ? 

STRANGER.  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  hadn't  got  a  name  ? 

8 


258  THE  STEPMOTHER 

(Bitterly)  And  if  you  want  to  know  why,  ask  Sir  John 
Pembury,  K.B.E. 

LADY  PEMBURY  (in  a  whisper).  He's  your  father. 

STRANGER.  Yes.  And  I'm  his  loving  son — come  to 
see  him  at  last,  after  all  these  years. 

LADY  PEMBURY  (hardly  able  to  ask  if).  How — how  old 
are  you  ? 

STRANGER.  Thirty. 

LADY  PEMBURY  (sitting  down  on  the  sofa).  Oh,  thank 
God  !  Thank  God  ! 

STRANGER  (upset  by  her  emotion).  Look  here,  I  didn't 
want  all  this.  I  ask  you — did  I  begin  it  ?  It  was  you 
who  kept  asking  questions.  I  just  came  for  a  quiet 
talk  with  Sir  John — Father  and  Son  talking  together 
quietly — talking  about  Son's  allowance.  A  thousand 
a  year.  What  did  you  want  to  come  into  it  for  ? 

(LADY  PEMBURY  is  quiet  again  now.  She  wipes 
away  a  tear  or  two,  and  sits  up,  looking  at 
him  thoughtfully.) 

LADY  PEMBURY.  So  you  are  the  son  that  I  never  had. 

STRANGER.  What  d'you  mean  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY  (almost  to  herself}.  The  son  whom  I 
wanted  so.  Five  girls — never  a  boy.  Let  me  look  at 
you.  (She  goes  up  to  him.') 

STRANGER  (edging  away).  Here,  none  of  that. 

LADY  PEMBURY  (looking  at  him  earnestly  to  see  if  she 
can  see  a  likeness).  No — and  yet — (shaking  her  head 
sadly)  Poor  boy  !  What  an  unhappy  life  you  must  have 
had! 

STRANGER.  I  didn't  come  here  to  be  pitied.  I  came 
to  get  my  rightful  allowance  —  same  as  any  other 
son. 

LADY  PEMBURY  (to  herself).  Poor  boy  !  (She  goes  back 
to  her  seat  and  then  says)  You  don't  mind  my  asking  you 
questions  now,  do  you  ? 


THE  STEPMOTHER  259 

STRANGER.  Go  on.  There 's  no  mistake  about  it.  I 
can  promise  you  that. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  How  did  you  find  out  ?  Did  your 
Mother  tell  you  ? 

STRANGER.  Never  a  word.  "  Don't  ask  questions, 
sonny —  "  Father's  dead  " — all  that  sort  of  thing. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Does  Sir  John  know  ?  Did  he  ever 
know  ? 

STRANGER  (feeling  in  his  pocket}.  He  knew  right  enough. 
(Bringing  out  letters)  Look  here — here  you  are.  This 
was  how  I  found  out.  (Selecting  one)  There — read  that 
one. 

LADY  PEMBURY  (taking  if).  Yes — that's  John's  writing. 
(She  holds  it  out  to  him.) 

STRANGER.  Aren't  you  going  to  read  it  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY  (shaking  her  head  pathetically}.  He 
didn't  write  it  to  me. 

STRANGER.  He  didn't  write  it  to  me,  if  it  comes  to  that. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  You're  her  son — you  have  a  right. 
I'm — nobody. 

STRANGER  (putting  it  back  in  his  pocket).  Oh  well,  please 
yourself. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Did  Sir  John  provide  for  your  mother  ? 

STRANGER.  Well,  why  shouldn't  he  ?  He  was  a  rich 
man. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Not  in  those  days.  .  .  .  But  indeed — 
why  shouldn't  he  ?  What  else  could  he  do  ?  I'm  glad 
he  did. 

STRANGER.  And  now  he's  going  to  provide  for  his 
loving  son.  He's  rich  enough  for  that  in  these  days. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  He's  never  seen  you  ? 

STRANGER.  Never.  The  historic  meeting  of  Father 
and  Son  will  take  place  this  afternoon.  (IViih  a  feeble 
attempt  at  ivhat  he  thinks  is  the  aristocratic  manner)  Afraid 
the  Governor  will  be  in  the  deuce  of  a  rage.  Been 


260  THE  STEPMOTHER 

exceedin*  my  allowance — what  ?     Make  it  a  thousand, 
dear  old  Gov. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Don't  they  call  that  blackmail  ? 

STRANGER  (violently).  Now  look  here,  I'd  better  tell 
you  straight  that  there's  no  blackmail  about  this  at  all. 
He's  my  father,  isn't  he  ?  Well,  can't  a  son  come  to  his 
father  if  he's  hard  up  ?  Where  are  your  threatening 
letters  ?  Where's  the  blackmail  ?  Anyway,  what's  he 
going  to  do  about  it  ?  Put  his  son  in  prison  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY  (following  her  own  thoughts).  You're 
thirty.  Thank  God  for  that.  We  hadn't  met  then. 
.  .  .  Ah,  but  he  ought  to  have  told  me.  He  ought  to 
have  told  me. 

STRANGER.  P'raps  he  thought  you  wouldn't  marry 
him,  if  he  did. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Do  you  think  that  was  it  ?  (Earnestly 
to  him,  as  if  he  were  an  old  friend)  You  know  men — young 
men.  I  never  had  a  son  ;  I  never  had  any  brothers. 
Do  they  tell  ?  They  ought  to,  oughtn't  they  ? 

STRANGER.  Well — well,   if  you   ask   me I   say, 

look  here,  this  isn't  the  sort  of  thing  one  discusses 
with  a  lady. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Isn't  it  ?     But  one  can  talk  to  a  friend. 

STRANGER  (scornfu lly).  You  and  me  look  like  friends, 
don't  we  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY  (smiling).  Well,  we  do,  rather. 

(He  gets  up  hastily  and  moves  further  away  from 
her.} 

STRANGER.  I  know  what  your  game  is.  Don't  think 
I  don't  see  it. 

LADY  PEMBURY.   What  IS  it  ? 

STRANGER.  Falling  on  your  knees,  and  saying  with 
tears  in  your  eyes  :  "  Oh,  kind  friend,  spare  me  poor 
husband  !  "  /  know  the  sort  of  thing.  And  trying  to 
work  me  up  friendly  before  you  begin. 


THE  STEPMOTHER  261 

LADY  PEMBURY  (shaking  her  head).  No,  if  I  went  on  my 
knees  to  you,  I  shouldn't  say  that.  How  can  you  hurt 
my  husband  now  ? 

STRANGER.  Well,  I  don't  suppose  the  scandal  will 
do  him  much  good.  Not  an  important  Member  of 
Parliament  like  him. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Ah,  but  it  isn't  the  outside  things 
that  really  hurt  you,  the  things  which  are  done  to  you, 
but  the  things  which  you  do  to  yourself.  And  so  if  I 
went  on  my  knees  to  you,  it  would  not  be  for  my 
husband's  sake.  For  I  should  go  on  my  knees,  and  I 
should  say  :  "  Oh,  my  son  that  might  have  been,  think 
before  you  give  up  everything  that  a  man  should  have. 
Ambition,  hope,  pride,  self-respect — are  not  these  worth 
keeping  ?  Is  your  life  to  end  now  ?  Have  you  done 
all  that  you  came  into  the  world  to  do,  so  that  now  you 
can  look  back  and  say,  '  It  is  finished  ;  I  have  given  all 
that  I  had  to  give  ;  henceforward  I  will  spend  '  ?  " 
(Very  gently)  Oh,  my  son  that  might  have  been  ! 

STRANGER  (very  uncomfortable).  Here,  I  say,  that  isn't 
fair. 

LADY  PEMBURY  (gently).  When  did  your  mother 
die? 

STRANGER.  Look  here,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  keep  on 
about  mothers. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  When  did  she  die,  proud  mother  ? 

STRANGER  (sulkily).  Well,  why  shouldn't  she  be  proud  ? 
(After  a  pause)  Two  years  ago,  if  you  want  to  know. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  It  was  then  that  you  found  out  who 
your  father  was  ? 

STRANGER.  That's  right.  I  found  these  old  letters. 
She'd  kept  them  locked  up  all  those  years.  Bit  of  luck 
for  me. 

LADY  PEMBURY  (almost  to  herself).  And  that  was  two 
years  ago.  And  for  two  years  you  had  your  hopes, 


262  THE  STEPMOTHER 

your  ambitions,  for  two  years  you  were  proud  and 
independent.  .  .  .  Why  did  you  not  come  to  us 
then? 

STRANGER  (with  a  touch  of  vanity).  Well,  I  was  getting 
on  all  right,  you  know — and 

LADY  PEMBURY.  And  then  suddenly,  after  two  years, 
you  lost  hope. 

STRANGER.  I  lost  my  job. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Poor  boy  !     And  couldn't  get  another. 

STRANGER  (bitterly).  It's  a  beast  of  a  world  if  you're 
down.  He's  in  the  gutter — kick  him  down — trample 
on  him.  Nobody  wants  him.  That's  the  way  to  treat 
them  when  they're  down.  Trample  on  'em. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  And  so  you  came  to  your  father  to 
help  you  up  again.  To  help  you  out  of  the  gutter. 

STRANGER.  That's  right. 

LADY  PEMBURY  (pleadingly).  Ah,  but  give  him  a 
chance ! 

STRANGER.  Now,  look  here,  I've  told  you  already  that 
I'm  not  going  to  have  any  of  that  game. 

LADY  PEMBURY  (shaking  her  head  sadly}.  Foolish  boy  ! 
You  don't  understand.  Give  him  a  chance  to  help  you 
out  of  the  gutter. 

STRANGER.  Well,  I'm !  Isn't  that  what  I  am 

doing  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY.  No,  no.  You're  asking  him  to 
trample  you  right  down  into  it,  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  mud  and  slime.  I  want  you  to  let  him  help 
you  back  to  where  you  were  two  years  ago — when 
you  were  proud  and  hopeful. 

STRANGER  (looking  at  her  in  a  puzzled  way}.  I  can't 
make  out  what  your  game  is.  It's  no  good  pretending 
you  don't  hate  the  sight  of  me — it  stands  to  reason 
you  must. 

LADY  PEMBURY  (smiling).  But  then  women  are  un- 


THE  STEPMOTHER  263 

reasonable,  aren't  they  ?  And  I  think  it  is  only  in 
fairy-stories  that  stepmothers  are  always  so  unkind. 

STRANGER  (surprised).  Stepmother  ! 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Well,  that's  practically  what  I  am, 
isn't  it  ?  (Whimsically)  I've  never  been  a  stepmother 
before.  (Persuasively]  Couldn't  you  let  me  be  proud  of 
my  stepson  ? 

STRANGER.  Well,  you  are  a  one  !  .  .  .  Do  you  mean 
to  say  that  you  and  your  husband  aren't  going  to  have 
a  row  about  this  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY.  It's  rather  late  to  begin  a  row,  isn't 
it,  thirty  years  after  it's  happened  ?  .  .  .  Besides, 
perhaps  you  aren't  going  to  tell  him  anything  about  it. 

STRANGER.  But  what  else  have  I  come  for  except  to 
tell  him  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY.  To  tell  me.  ...  I  asked  you  to  give 
him  a  chance  of  helping  you  out  of  your  troubles,  but 
I'd  rather  you  gave  me  the  chance.  .  .  .  You  see,  John 
would  be  very  unhappy  if  he  knew  that  I  knew  this  ; 
and  he  would  have  to  tell  me,  because  when  a  man  has 
been  happily  married  to  anybody  for  twenty-eight 
years,  he  can't  really  keep  a  secret  from  the  other  one. 
He  pretends  to  himself  that  he  can,  but  he  knows  all 
the  time  what  a  miserable  pretence  it  is.  And  so  John 
would  tell  me,  and  say  he  was  sorry,  and  I  would  say  : 
"  It's  all  right,  darling,  I  knew,"  but  it  would  make 
him  ashamed,  and  he  would  be  afraid  that  perhaps 
I  wasn't  thinking  him  such  a  wonderful  man  as  I  did 
before.  And  it's  very  bad  for  a  public  man  like  John 
when  he  begins  to  lose  faith  in  what  his  wife  is  thinking 
about  him.  ...  So  let  me  be  your  friend,  will  you  ? 
(There  is  a  silence  between  them  for  a  little.  He  looks  at 
her  rvonderingly .  Suddenly  she  stands  up,  her  finger  to 
her  lips)  H'sh  !  It's  John.  (She  moves  aivay  from 
him .) 


264,  THE  STEPMOTHER 

SIR  JOHN  PEMBURY  comes  in  quickly  ;  big,  good-looking, 
decisive,  friendly  ;  a  man  who  wears  very  naturally, 
and  without  any  self-  consciousness,  an  air  of  being 
somebody. 

PEMBURY  (walking  hastily  past  his  wife  to  her  writing- 
desk).  Hallo,  darling  !  Did  I  leave  a  cheque-book  in 
here  ?  I  was  writing  a  cheque  for  you  this  morning. 
Ah,  here  we  are.  (As  he  comes  back,  he  sees  THE  STRANGER) 

I  beg  your  pardon,  Kate.     I  didn't  see (He  is 

making  for  the  door  with  the  cheque-book  in  his  hand,  and 
then  stops  and  says  with  a  pleasant  smile  to  THE  STRANGER) 
But,  perhaps  you  are  waiting  to  see  me  ?  Perkins  said 
something 

STRANGER  (coming  forward).  Yes,  I  came  to  see  you, 
Sir  John. 

(Pie  stands  close  in  front  of  SIR  JOHN,  looking  at 
him.     LADY  PEMBURY  matches  them  steadfastly?) 

PEMBURY  (tapping  his  cheque-book  against  his  hand). 
Important  ? 

STRANGER.  I  came  to  ask  your  help. 

PEMBURY  (looking  at  his  cheque-book  and  then  back  with 
a  smile  at  THE  STRANGER).  A  good  many  people  do  that. 
Have  you  any  special  claim  on  me  ? 

STRANGER  (after  a  long  pause).  No. 

(PEMBURY  looks  at  him,  undecided.     LADY  PEMBURY 
comes  forward?) 

LADY  PEMBURY.  All  right,  dear.  (Meaning  that  she 
will  look  after  THE  STRANGER  till  he  comes  back.) 

PEMBURY.  I'll  be  back  in  a  moment.  (He  nods  and 
hurries  out.) 

(There  is  silence  for  a  little,  and  then  LADY  PEMBURY 
claps  her  hands  gently.) 

LADY  PEMBURY  (with  shifting  eyes).  Oh,  brave,  brave  ! 
Ah,  but  I  am  a  proud  stepmother  to-day.  (She  holds 
out  her  hand  to  him)  Thank  you,  son. 


THE  STEPMOTHER  265 

BTR ANGER  (not  seeing  it,  and  speaking  in  a  hard  voice). 
I'd  better  go. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Mayn't  I  help  you  ? 

STRANGER.  I'd  better  go. 

LADY  PEMBURY  (distressed).  You  can't  go  like  this.  I 
don't  even  know  your  name,  nor  where  you  live. 

STRANGER.  Don't  be  afraid — you  shan't  hear  from 
me  again. 

LADY  PEMBURY  (gently).  Not  even  when  you've  got 
back  to  where  you  were  two  years  ago  ?  Mayn't  I 
then? 

STRANGER  (looking  at  her,  and  then  nodding  slowly). 
Yes,  you  shall  then. 

LADY  PEMBURY.  Thank  you.  I  shall  wait.  I  shall 
hope.  I  shall  pray.  (She  holds  out  her  hand  again) 
Good-bye  ! 

STRANGER  (shaking  his  head).  Wait  till  you  hear  from 
me.  (He  goes  to  the  door,  and  then  stops  and  comes 
slo-tvly  back.  He  says  awkwardly)  Wish  you'd  do  one 
thing  for  me  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY.    Yes  ? 

STRANGER.  That  fellow — what  did  you  say  his  name 
was — Perkins  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY  (surprised).  The  butler?  Perkins — yes? 
STRANGER.  Would  you  give  him  a  message  from  me  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY.    Of  COUrSC. 

STRANGER  (still  awkwardly).  Just  to  say — I'll  be  there 
— at  the  Mews — on  Sunday  afternoon.  He'll  know. 
Tell  him  I'll  be  there.  (He  squares  his  shoulders  and 
walks  out  defiantly — ready  to  take  the  world  on  again — 
beginning  with  PERKINS  on  Sunday  afternoon?) 

(LADY  PEMBURY  stands  watching  him  as  he  goes. 
She  waits  after  he  has  gone,  thinking  her  own 
thoughts,  nut  of  which  she  comes  with  something 
of  a  shock  as  the  door  opens  and 


266  THE  STEPMOTHER 

SIR  JOHN  comes  in. 
PEMBURY.  Hallo  !     Has  he  gone  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY.    Yes. 

PEMBURY.  What  did  he  want  ?  Five  pounds — or  a 
place  in  the  Cabinet  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY.  He  came  for — a  subscription. 
PEMBURY.  And  got  it,  if  I  know  my  Kate.     (Care- 
lessly} What  did  he  take  from  you  ? 

LADY  PEMBURY  (with  a  wistful  little  sigh).  Yes  ;  he 
took  something  from  me.  Not  very  much,  I  think. 
But  just — something.  (She  takes  his  arm,  leads  him  to 
the  sofa,  and  says  affectionately)  And  now  tell  me  all 
that  you've  been  doing  this  morning. 

(•So  he  begins  to  tell  her— just  as  he  has  told  her 
a  thousand  times  before.  .  .  .  But  it  isn't 
quite  the  same.) 


ftw.'.ed.  in  Great  Britain  by  R.  &  R.  CLARK,  LIMITED,  Edinburgh. 


UNIVERSITY  OF   '  LIBRAP*'    - 


UCLA-CoM«fl«  Library 

PR  6025  M63A19  1922 


L  005  729  679  0 


College 
Library 


PR 


1922 


"  *  i  i  ii i  ii  ii  1 1 1  it  1 1  ii it  H 
A     001  185354     6 


